Two Nurses Laughed at the “Homeless” Man in the ER — I Didn’t. Minutes Later, He Whispered a Call Sign I Hadn’t Heard in Years

PART 2

Nathan Cole had not been pretending to be homeless.

That mattered to me more than anything else I learned about him.

He had actually been homeless.

Not continuously.

Not in the simplified way people imagine homelessness.

For two months he lived in his truck.

Then the truck died.

He spent five weeks in a veterans transitional program.

Three months renting a room from another veteran.

Then a medication change went badly, he lost a warehouse job, and he spent several weeks rotating between a church shelter and cheap motels.

By the time he reached Hawthorne Memorial, nearly everything he owned fit inside the canvas backpack and metal case.

Nathan had served fourteen years in the Army.

Explosive ordnance disposal.

Two deployments to Iraq.

Two to Afghanistan.

The injury that eventually ended his military career happened during his last deployment when a secondary blast drove debris into his abdomen and damaged his right hip.

He recovered well enough to walk.

Not well enough to remain in EOD.

Then came headaches.

Sleep problems.

Memory gaps.

Anger he did not recognize as anger until it had already left his mouth.

His mother died eleven months after his medical retirement.

His older half-brother, Evan, stepped in.

At first, Nathan was grateful.

That was important too.

Evan was not a stranger who appeared to steal from a wounded veteran.

He was his brother.

Six years older.

A corporate real-estate attorney in Charlotte.

Organized.

Successful.

The person their mother had always called when paperwork became complicated.

When Nathan missed VA appointments and forgot to pay property taxes on a small house his mother had left him personally, Evan helped.

When Nathan ended up hospitalized after mixing prescription sleep medication with alcohol, Evan helped again.

Then Nathan had a psychiatric crisis.

No violence.

No crime.

He simply disappeared for two days and was found sitting near the James River with no memory of driving there.

Evan petitioned for temporary guardianship.

Nathan agreed.

“For ninety days,” he told me.

We were sitting in his hospital room the next morning.

He had undergone a procedure to clean the infected wound and remove damaged mesh.

He looked considerably better.

“I signed because I knew I wasn’t functioning.”

“What happened after ninety days?”

“Evan asked for an extension.”

“Did you agree?”

“No.”

“Court granted it?”

“Six months.”

“And after that?”

“It ended.”

“Completely?”

“Yes.”

He handed me a court order.

Restoration of full legal capacity.

Four years earlier.

“Then why is Hawthorne treating him as your representative?”

“That’s what I came to ask.”

I read the hospital letters.

Evan had been corresponding with Hawthorne for almost two years.

Sometimes as “family representative.”

Sometimes as “trust liaison.”

Then, seven months earlier, he began describing himself as acting trustee.

“Is he?”

“No.”

“Who is?”

Nathan gave me an exhausted smile.

“Technically?”

“Yes.”

“Me.”

That stopped me.

“The trust beneficiary is also trustee?”

“Successor trustee after my mother died.”

“Were you capable of serving then?”

“No.”

“So Evan acted temporarily?”

“A bank did.”

“Which bank?”

“Piedmont Commonwealth.”

“What happened?”

“When the guardianship ended, trusteeship was supposed to return to me.”

“Did it?”

“I thought so.”

He looked toward the window.

“I didn’t exactly have quarterly trust meetings while sleeping in my truck.”

Fair.

The trust was not a giant pile of liquid money.

Most of its value was land.

The Hawthorne ground lease.

Two agricultural parcels outside Fredericksburg.

A small commercial property.

Income existed.

But during Nathan’s guardianship, distributions had been restricted and redirected toward medical costs, taxes, and professional management.

After his capacity was restored, something should have changed.

It did not.

Nathan assumed the trust had little available income because Evan told him the properties were “cash poor.”

Then twelve days before arriving at Hawthorne, a volunteer attorney at a veterans legal clinic helped Nathan request a complete trust accounting.

The numbers did not match anything Evan had told him.

The trust had received almost $220,000 in distributable income over three years.

Nathan received $18,400.

“Where did the rest go?”

“Management.”

“That’s a lot of management.”

“My brother’s firm billed some of it.”

I looked at him.

“How much?”

“Enough that the legal clinic stopped calling it normal.”

Nathan’s attorney had not yet accused Evan of theft.

There were legitimate expenses.

Taxes.

Property surveys.

Environmental studies.

Legal review.

But Evan had clearly continued controlling trust activity long after Nathan’s guardianship ended.

Then the legal clinic found Hawthorne’s proposed redevelopment.

Nathan took a bus from Norfolk to Richmond.

During the trip, his wound opened.

His duffel bag disappeared during a transfer.

He arrived at our hospital wet, hurting, and without the letter from legal aid recommending an appointment.

“Why didn’t your attorney come?”

“He has forty-seven other clients.”

“Fair.”

“He told me not to sign anything.”

“That also seems fair.”

I closed the folder.

“You need a trust lawyer.”

“I have legal aid.”

“They’re veterans benefits attorneys.”

“They know enough to tell me when something smells bad.”

“So do I.”

He smiled.

That was the first time.

It changed his whole face.

Then he said:

“Why do you care?”

The question bothered me.

Not because I lacked an answer.

Because I had too many.

I cared because Marcus had almost thrown him outside.

Because the veterans unit mattered.

Because my father had spent years there.

Because I disliked seeing people with expensive titles become suddenly interested in someone after discovering their signature might be valuable.

But those were my reasons.

Nathan needed someone looking at his.

“I work in patient financial advocacy.”

“That doesn’t answer it.”

“You came here asking about a hospital agreement.”

“Still doesn’t.”

I sighed.

“My dad was treated on Seven North.”

“When?”

“Nineties.”

“He a veteran?”

“Vietnam.”

Nathan nodded.

“Army?”

“Marines.”

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

He smiled again.

“I’ve met Marines.”

I laughed.

Then he became serious.

“Did the place help him?”

“Yes.”

That was the real answer.

Dad arrived at Hawthorne angry at his body and angry at anyone who tried helping it.

He left walking with a cane instead of two crutches.

More importantly, he left believing medical care did not automatically mean surrendering control.

Later he volunteered there.

He drove younger veterans to appointments.

Taught card games nobody under sixty understood.

Sat beside families while their sons and daughters learned what permanent injury meant.

Seven North was part of our family history.

Nathan listened.

Then asked:

“Why are they closing it?”

“Money.”

“Is it losing money?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Depends which report you believe.”

He raised an eyebrow.

That was how we began working together.

Not romantically.

Not heroically.

With spreadsheets.

My access to Hawthorne financial data was limited to patient assistance, but public nonprofit filings showed the hospital system had reported strong operating margins the previous two years.

Seven North lost approximately $1.8 million annually on paper.

But that figure included allocated overhead.

Administrative costs.

Facility depreciation.

IT charges.

Security.

Laundry.

A portion of executive management.

Actual direct operating loss was much lower.

Meanwhile, the hospital received federal and state reimbursement tied to veteran rehabilitation, uncompensated care, and training programs.

I had raised that issue during closure planning.

Marcus told me the decision was “broader than one cost center.”

He was probably right.

Sterling Peak’s proposed orthopedic unit would earn far more.

Nathan asked:

“Does anybody at the hospital know the lease requires veteran rehabilitation?”

“I didn’t.”

“Marcus?”

“I don’t know.”

“Board?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how is Sterling Peak buying anything?”

“It may not be buying land. Probably development rights or a partnership interest.”

Nathan looked annoyed.

“You understand this better than I do.”

“I’ve worked around hospital contracts.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“It should be.”

That afternoon, Marcus visited.

He brought Hawthorne general counsel, a woman named Rebecca Sloan.

Rebecca was careful.

Good sign.

Bad lawyers start with confidence.

Good ones start with facts.

She looked at Nathan.

“Mr. Cole, we understand you have concerns about representation.”

“Yes.”

“We relied on documents provided by Evan Cole.”

“What documents?”

“A power of attorney.”

“I revoked it.”

“When?”

“Four years ago.”

Rebecca’s eyes changed.

“Do you have proof?”

Nathan handed her the revocation.

She read it.

Then the date.

Then again.

Marcus said:

“Rebecca?”

She did not answer immediately.

Finally:

“This requires review.”

Nathan nodded.

“Good.”

Rebecca continued.

“Your brother also represented that he was authorized to act for the trust.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Piedmont Commonwealth correspondence identified him as trust counsel.”

“Counsel is not trustee.”

Rebecca looked at him.

“No. It is not.”

Marcus shifted.

“Regardless, the redevelopment has gone through extensive review.”

Nathan looked at him.

“Then one more review shouldn’t hurt.”

Marcus did not like that.

I did.

Rebecca asked to copy the lease.

Nathan agreed.

But only after she signed a receipt identifying exactly which pages were copied.

I watched him.

“You’ve learned.”

He said quietly:

“I learned expensive.”

The next surprise came that evening.

A nurse handed Nathan a message.

His brother had called the floor six times.

Nathan did not call back.

At 7:14, Evan Cole arrived personally.

Tailored navy suit.

Leather briefcase.

Hair still perfect after a three-hour drive.

He walked into Nathan’s room like a man arriving to solve a family inconvenience.

“Nate.”

Nathan’s entire body changed.

Not fear.

Something older.

The automatic tension of a younger brother around the person who has spent years knowing better.

Evan glanced at me.

“Can we have privacy?”

Nathan said:

“Grace stays.”

Evan smiled politely.

“This is family.”

Nathan’s voice remained flat.

“Grace stays.”

Evan placed his briefcase down.

“You scared me.”

“I’ve called you fourteen times this month.”

“I’ve been in closings.”

“You told Hawthorne you represent me.”

“I do represent the trust.”

“No.”

Evan’s smile faded.

“You don’t understand the structure.”

“Then explain it.”

“We established a management arrangement during your incapacity.”

“My incapacity ended four years ago.”

“The trust didn’t magically become simple because a judge restored your legal status.”

“You signed redevelopment consent.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it is financially responsible.”

“For who?”

“For you.”

Nathan laughed.

It contained no humor.

Evan leaned forward.

“The Sterling Peak transaction could create millions in value.”

“It closes the veterans center.”

“It relocates services.”

“It violates the lease.”

“We have legal opinions saying otherwise.”

“From your firm?”

Silence.

Nathan looked at me.

There it was.

The first crack.

Evan said:

“You think this woman understands a charitable land trust better than attorneys?”

I answered before Nathan could.

“No.”

Evan looked at me.

“I understand conflicts of interest.”

His face hardened.

Nathan said:

“How much does your firm earn if Sterling Peak closes?”

Evan stood.

“That’s enough.”

“No.”

For the first time since I met him, Nathan sounded like the soldier he had once been.

“You spent years telling me I wasn’t stable enough to understand money. I believed you.”

Evan’s jaw tightened.

“I kept you alive.”

Nathan stopped.

That was the cruelest effective sentence Evan could have chosen because part of it was true.

He had helped Nathan.

He had driven him to appointments.

Handled bills.

Cleaned up crises.

Probably prevented him from losing everything during the worst period of his recovery.

Control rarely begins looking like control.

Sometimes it begins looking like rescue.

Evan continued:

“When Mom died, you couldn’t remember what day it was.”

“I know.”

“You disappeared.”

“I know.”

“You were drinking.”

“I know.”

“I kept the trust intact while you were destroying yourself.”

Nathan looked down.

For a moment I thought Evan had won.

Then Nathan said:

“And then I got better.”

Evan said nothing.

“That’s the part you never adjusted to.”

The room changed.

Evan picked up his briefcase.

“You are making decisions you do not understand.”

“Maybe.”

Nathan met his eyes.

“But they’re mine again.”

After Evan left, Nathan stared at the wall for a long time.

I did not tell him how brave he had been.

Adults deserve better than being praised like children for setting boundaries.

Instead I asked:

“Do you want coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Hospital coffee?”

“No.”

“That’s the first good decision you’ve made all day.”

He smiled.

Then his phone rang.

Rebecca Sloan.

Hawthorne’s lawyer.

Nathan put her on speaker.

Her voice was controlled.

“Mr. Cole, we completed a preliminary review.”

“And?”

“There is a problem.”

I already knew that.

I did not know how large.

Rebecca continued:

“The title company handling the Sterling Peak transaction received a certification from your brother stating that the trust restriction had been waived by the acting beneficiary.”

Nathan’s face went still.

“I never waived it.”

“We understand that now.”

“When is closing?”

A pause.

“Monday.”

It was Thursday night.

Four days.

The hospital was planning to complete a multimillion-dollar redevelopment agreement using a waiver Nathan had never signed.

PART 3

Friday morning, Hawthorne suspended me.

Not for helping Nathan.

Officially.

The notice said I had accessed financial information outside my assigned duties and discussed confidential redevelopment matters with a patient.

Marcus delivered it himself.

Rebecca Sloan was present.

So was Human Resources.

I read the letter.

Then asked:

“Which confidential financial information?”

Marcus looked exhausted.

“Grace.”

“No, seriously. The nonprofit filing was public. The veterans unit census is part of my normal work. The lease came from Nathan.”

“This isn’t punitive.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“You’ve become personally involved.”

“Yes.”

“That compromises your role.”

“Then reassign Nathan to another advocate.”

“We have.”

I looked at Rebecca.

She seemed unhappy.

That mattered.

“Does legal agree with this suspension?”

Rebecca answered carefully:

“Legal advised that separation from the matter may protect both you and the hospital.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Marcus interrupted.

“Enough.”

I placed my badge on the table.

Again, someone with authority seemed to believe taking a badge removed what I already knew.

I went home.

Nathan remained hospitalized until Saturday.

I did not visit.

That was harder than I expected.

But Marcus was right about one thing.

I had become involved.

If I ignored every boundary because I disliked how leadership behaved, I would eventually become the kind of person I complained about.

So I waited until Nathan called me from his personal phone after discharge.

“I’m outside.”

“Outside where?”

“Your apartment.”

I looked through the window.

He was standing beside a rideshare car wearing donated jeans, an old Richmond Flying Squirrels sweatshirt, and his taped boots.

He looked ridiculous.

I went downstairs.

“You can’t just arrive at people’s homes.”

“You gave me your address.”

“For discharge paperwork.”

“Still worked.”

“You need somewhere to stay?”

“Veterans housing placed me in a motel through Tuesday.”

“Then why are you here?”

He held up the metal case.

“I need help understanding hospital paperwork.”

“I’m suspended because of hospital paperwork.”

“Then your schedule opened up.”

I should not have laughed.

I did.

We went to a coffee shop instead.

Public place.

Clear boundaries.

Mostly.

Nathan’s veterans legal clinic had referred his trust problem to a Richmond nonprofit called Virginia Service Members Legal Project.

Not a surprise savior.

A resource his existing attorney had already contacted before Nathan traveled.

Their trust attorney, Denise Walker, could meet Monday morning.

Unfortunately, the Sterling Peak closing was also Monday.

“What can happen before then?” I asked.

Nathan removed papers.

“My original attorney says we need to notify the title company directly.”

“Do you know which one?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Hawthorne lawyer told us.”

Rebecca had done more than I realized.

Legally, she represented the hospital.

But she had no interest in letting her client complete a transaction using a possibly invalid waiver.

Nathan had the title company’s contact information.

He also had a notarized revocation of Evan’s power of attorney.

Court documents restoring legal capacity.

Trust succession provisions.

And the original lease.

“What do you need from me?”

He looked embarrassed.

“I don’t understand half the hospital documents.”

“Which documents?”

He handed me a redevelopment summary.

I recognized the language.

The hospital was not selling Seven North.

Technically.

Sterling Peak would invest $17 million in renovating the wing and receive a thirty-year exclusive operating arrangement.

Hawthorne would continue owning the building.

The trust continued owning the land.

The hospital believed that because some veteran outpatient services would remain elsewhere on campus, the lease restriction was satisfied.

Nathan’s brother had signed a separate acknowledgment agreeing with that interpretation.

I read it twice.

“This isn’t obviously fraudulent.”

Nathan frowned.

“What?”

“I’m not saying it’s valid.”

“But?”

“But this is a legal interpretation fight.”

The original lease required the eastern tract to remain “substantially devoted to inpatient restorative and transitional care for former members of the United States armed services.”

Sterling Peak’s plan preserved a six-bed veteran transition program.

The current center had thirty-six beds.

Was six beds “substantial”?

I would not want to argue yes.

But someone clearly intended to.

Nathan said:

“My mother would never have agreed.”

“That matters emotionally. Maybe not legally.”

He looked frustrated.

“You sound like Evan.”

“No.”

I pointed at the paper.

“Evan tells you what the answer is. I’m telling you where the question is.”

He became quiet.

Then nodded.

That was the beginning of our actual partnership.

Not me rescuing him.

Not him revealing secret wealth.

Two people identifying what they did not know.

We spent Saturday separating facts from suspicions.

Fact:

Nathan’s power of attorney to Evan had been revoked.

Fact:

His legal capacity had been restored.

Fact:

Evan continued acting as trust counsel.

Unclear:

Whether Evan had separate authority through trust management documents.

Fact:

Nathan never personally signed the redevelopment waiver.

Fact:

A waiver bearing his typed beneficiary approval existed.

Unclear:

Whether electronic consent had been validly delegated.

Fact:

Hawthorne planned to reduce veteran inpatient beds dramatically.

Unclear:

Whether that legally triggered reversion.

Fact:

The title company had been told there was no beneficiary dispute.

That one we could change immediately.

Nathan emailed a formal notice of dispute Saturday evening.

He attached the lease.

Court order.

Power-of-attorney revocation.

Trust pages identifying him.

He copied Hawthorne general counsel.

Sterling Peak.

The trust bank.

His new legal counsel.

No threats.

No accusations.

One sentence mattered:

I do not consent to any representation that I or the Calder Family Charitable Land Trust have waived, amended, or released the veteran-use restriction applicable to the eastern tract.

Sunday morning, the title company responded.

Closing suspended pending review.

Nathan stared at the email.

“That’s it?”

“That’s not it.”

“But they stopped closing.”

“For now.”

He sat back.

For the first time since I met him, his shoulders relaxed.

Then another email arrived.

From Evan.

You have no idea what you just destroyed.

Nathan read it.

Then deleted it.

“Don’t you need that?”

He froze.

“For evidence.”

“Oh.”

He recovered it from trash.

“Still learning.”

“Expensive?”

He looked at me.

“Very.”

Monday morning, Nathan met Denise Walker.

I did not attend the legal consultation.

I waited in the lobby because Nathan asked me to.

He came out after ninety minutes.

His expression was strange.

“What?”

“My brother isn’t trustee.”

“We knew that.”

“No.”

He sat beside me.

“He was never authorized to exercise beneficiary rights.”

“That’s better.”

“It gets worse.”

Denise had obtained correspondence from Piedmont Commonwealth Bank.

When Nathan’s guardianship ended, the bank had sent Evan three notices explaining that Nathan’s full beneficiary authority had resumed.

Evan acknowledged receiving them.

“He knew,” Nathan said.

“Yes.”

“He didn’t misunderstand.”

“Apparently not.”

Nathan looked physically sick.

There is a particular grief in discovering the person who controlled you knew exactly when their right to do so ended.

Denise found another issue.

Evan’s firm had collected more than $310,000 from the trust in legal, management, consulting, and transaction fees over four years.

Not automatically illegal.

But the proposed Sterling Peak closing would generate an additional success fee.

$425,000.

“What does Evan say?” I asked.

“He hasn’t responded to Denise.”

“He will.”

He did that afternoon.

First denial.

Then explanation.

Nathan misunderstood trust law.

Evan had broad administrative authority.

The redevelopment protected long-term trust value.

Nathan’s instability created a fiduciary risk.

When Denise pointed out he was not fiduciary, Evan changed arguments.

He had acted as necessary counsel.

When she asked who authorized the beneficiary waiver, he said the hospital’s documents were “draft language.”

They were not.

Then came blame.

Nathan had been unreachable.

Nathan had neglected trust responsibilities.

Nathan had forced Evan to act.

Then bargaining.

Evan offered to waive half his outstanding legal fees if Nathan ratified the redevelopment.

Nathan asked me what I thought.

I answered:

“What do you think?”

“I think he wants the deal.”

“Then you have your answer.”

“About what?”

“Whether the discount is generosity.”

He did not ratify.

That afternoon, Hawthorne announced it was delaying the Sterling Peak project.

Marcus called me personally.

Not to apologize.

To ask me to return to work.

“The suspension is under review.”

“That sounds like still suspended.”

“We can convert it to paid administrative reassignment.”

“That sounds like suspended with better vocabulary.”

He sighed.

“Grace.”

“Yes?”

“The board wants you back.”

“Why?”

“You understand veteran reimbursement better than anyone on the redevelopment team.”

“They discovered that Friday?”

“No.”

At least he was honest.

He continued.

“Rebecca believes we need an independent service-impact analysis.”

“You had one.”

“It was prepared by the department supporting the project.”

“That does sound independent.”

“I know.”

Something in his voice had changed.

I asked:

“Did you know Nathan never consented?”

“No.”

“Did you know Evan’s power of attorney was revoked?”

“No.”

“Did you know the lease could revert?”

“Yes.”

That mattered.

“How long?”

“From the beginning.”

“Then why did you tell staff closure was final?”

“Because legal believed the six-bed transition program satisfied the restriction.”

“Did you?”

He paused.

“I wanted to.”

There it was.

Not conspiracy.

Convenience.

Marcus had a hospital with rising labor costs, aging infrastructure, and departments losing money.

Sterling Peak offered capital.

Prestige.

Profitable surgical volume.

A legal interpretation existed that allowed the deal.

He accepted it because it solved problems he actually had.

That did not make him evil.

It made him vulnerable to answers he wanted.

“I’ll come back,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“One condition.”

His tone became wary.

“What?”

“I am not reporting to redevelopment.”

“Grace.”

“Independent compliance or I stay home.”

“That is not your job.”

“It is if you want me analyzing the project.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’ll ask.”

The next morning Rebecca called.

“You got it.”

“For how long?”

“Until review is complete.”

“Who do I report to?”

“Me.”

“That seems dangerous.”

“For both of us.”

I returned to Hawthorne on Wednesday.

People stared.

Some had heard Nathan was secretly a millionaire.

He was not.

Some thought he owned the hospital.

He did not.

Some believed I was dating him.

I was not.

The rumor mill remained undefeated.

My first task was comparing what Hawthorne said Seven North cost with what it actually brought into the system.

By Friday, I found the problem.

Not fraud.

Something more useful.

The veterans center’s financial statement charged nearly $2.1 million in annual overhead from departments it barely used.

Executive administration.

Marketing.

Central fundraising.

Information systems.

Campus security.

Depreciation on renovations paid mostly through grants.

After removing allocated costs that would continue even if Seven North closed, the actual savings from closure fell dramatically.

Then I found another number.

Veterans treated on Seven North generated downstream care in cardiology, orthopedics, imaging, outpatient therapy, and pharmacy.

Hawthorne counted that revenue in those departments.

Not Seven North.

Marcus had been comparing the veterans center’s isolated cost against Sterling Peak’s total projected benefit.

Apples against an entire grocery store.

I showed Rebecca.

She asked:

“Does this mean Seven North makes money?”

“No.”

“How much does it actually lose?”

“Probably four to seven hundred thousand annually depending how you allocate fixed costs.”

“That’s still a loss.”

“Yes.”

“Sterling Peak earns millions.”

“Yes.”

“So the financial argument remains.”

“Yes.”

She looked surprised.

“You don’t seem disappointed.”

“I didn’t come here to make the veterans center magically profitable.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Making sure the board knows what decision it is actually making.”

That was different.

If Hawthorne wanted to abandon a mission commitment for higher revenue, that was a governance decision.

But nobody should be allowed to disguise it as unavoidable arithmetic.

By Friday afternoon, we discovered the second complication.

The 1987 lease contained another clause.

If the hospital stopped operating the required veteran facility and the land reverted, Hawthorne did not merely lose Seven North.

The eastern tract included the central loading dock.

Part of the emergency generator yard.

And the only service road wide enough for certain delivery trucks.

The hospital had expanded around leased land for decades without thinking seriously about the lease.

Nathan did not hold a magic deed to one wing.

His trust held a piece of property the hospital physically depended on.

Marcus stared at the survey.

“You’re kidding.”

Rebecca said:

“No.”

“How did nobody notice this?”

I answered:

“Because one-dollar leases are easy to forget when they last longer than most careers.”

The Sterling Peak project was no longer simply delayed.

It was impossible to close without Nathan.

And now everyone who had ignored the man in the taped boots wanted a meeting with him.