I tried to forget about it. Work got busier, my own health had a few scares, and my daughter started sending pictures of her new baby. Life moved on the way it always does. Still, every cold snap I thought about that quilt and whether it had been enough to keep one man alive.

Last month the hospital got an envelope with a check for seventy-five thousand dollars. The note said it was for buying warm blankets for the ER and any shelter that needed them. The only request was that they bring in the night nurse who once brought a quilt to a man with no name. My supervisor looked at me funny when she read that part out loud.

I almost did not go to the meeting. I stood in the break room for ten minutes telling myself it was probably a mistake or some reporter looking for a story. When I finally walked in, Roy was sitting at the long table in a dark coat that looked brand new. He stood up when he saw me and smiled like we were old friends who had lost touch.

He said he had been sober for six years and working maintenance at a factory on the other side of town. The first winter after he stopped coming to the ER he had slept in a church basement and used the quilt as a pillow because the floor was so hard. One of the church ladies helped him get into a program. He kept the quilt the whole time.

Roy told me he never forgot the nights I sat with him when nobody else would. He said the money was his way of making sure other people got the same chance. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small square of fabric.

It was one of the patches from the quilt, the corner with my mother’s initials still stitched in blue thread.

He set it on the table between us and said, “I cut this off so I could carry a piece with me. The rest is still in my truck if you want it back.” I just stood there looking at that little square and could not think of a single thing to say.

I have not called him yet even though he left his number. Part of me wants to ask if he ever thinks about those nights the way I do. The other part is afraid the answer might be yes and I will not know what to do with that.

I keep that little square in my robe pocket anyway. It feels softer than I remember, like the flannel still holds some of the warmth from those nights. I run my fingers over the stitches my mother put in years ago and wonder if Roy ever did the same thing when he was out in the cold.