The first time I saw him, I was at Burger King waiting on my brother and two nieces to arrive. Burger King is a regular treat for the girls, as it is one of only a few local restaurants with a play room that allows them to climb and shriek and slide around in their socks, in between the occasional French fry or chicken nugget.

While I waited, I noticed him sitting huddled in a booth, a hulking stranger who obviously didn’t belong. Not wanting to stare, all I got was the sense of a grizzled traveler, dressed in dark layers too warm for the summer heat. I imagined him as a potential threat to the children, and felt myself being slightly annoyed that he was even there, perhaps waiting to pounce on the next person who passed by. He was probably just looking for a handout, or worse.

Weeks went by, and I had put him completely out of my mind. Then one morning Alison caught a glimpse of a man sleeping in the small, woodsy area surrounded by the I-40 on-ramp. Day after day, she would see him there, camping out under the trees, hidden from view unless you knew where to look. We talked about him, how long we had been seeing him there, and what his story might be. Finally I realized that he must be the same man I noticed at the Burger King. After talking about him with some friends from church, I resolved that if we saw him again, we would stop and talk to him, and see if there was anything we could do to help him out.

That weekend it had been raining relentlessly. It was Sunday morning, and I was up uncharacteristically early. Since I was already dressed and ready for church, I decided to prepare some chocolate pancakes for breakfast, while Alison showered. She finished getting ready just in time to wolf down a few pancakes and jump in the car. I decided to pack up the leftovers and take them with us to Bible class; maybe someone would be hungry there, since our class had stopped ordering donuts. And, for once, we would actually be on time.

As we circled onto I-40, we looked to see if he was in his usual spot, though he had been gone the last several days. Sure enough, he was there, laying in the wet grass as the rain continued to drizzle. We decided to take the next exit, double back, and approach him.

We realized we could give him the pancakes, thinking perhaps a warm meal would feel nice on a nasty morning like this, though it would not be a particularly healthy breakfast, obviously.

Alison had us stop at the gas station to get some coffee to go with it, as well as withdraw some cash from the ATM in case he could use some financial help. We called a member of class to let them know we would be late, at best. Alison warned me to be prepared for anything — to be willing to give him a ride, to offer him a place to stay, a warm shower, or whatever he might need. I agreed.

We drove back to his wooded cove and pulled over. Somewhat nervous, I got out of the car carrying the coffee, along with some sweetener, creme and a spoon. I walked slowly, forcing as warm a smile as I could muster, trying to look non-threatening, and searching for something meaningful to say.

Everything that came to mind seemed empty, but I had to say something, so I came out with something like: “Hi. I thought you might enjoy some warm coffee. How are you doing? My name is Mick, what’s yours?”

I was afraid he might start yelling at me for invading his turf, or rush at me, or do something crazy. Instead, he meekly accepted the coffee and in the softest voice possible said his name was Scott.

He didn’t even get up. He continued to recline on the plastic bags behind him, full of what looked like garbage but were probably the entirety of his earthly possessions.

When I asked if he would like some homemade pancakes, for some reason I worried that he might think they were poisoned or that we were up to no good, but he just said yeah and looked away. I walked back to the car and grabbed the tupperware container full of pancakes to bring back to him.

“Here are the pancakes. Some of them have chocolate chips, and some don’t. You can keep the container,” I said.

If he said anything at all, it was a simple “OK.”

I looked at him, noticed his filthy layers of clothing, his dreadlocked hair and thick white beard contrasted against his light blue eyes, one of them hazy and pointing off in another direction. On his head, he wore something like a stretched-out skull cap. I wondered if he was sick, or unable to walk.

NOTE: The photo above is not a picture of Scott; that is just a stock image of a man who resembles him in several ways.

I asked him how long he had been staying there. He misunderstood, perhaps deliberately, and said he was from California. I didn’t push the question. I asked if there was anything I could do to help him. No, he said. Could I give him a ride somewhere? No. Did he need anything? No.

He didn’t ask for money. And though he was calm and coherent, he didn’t seem at all interested in talking to me or telling me his story. He didn’t say thank you for the coffee or pancakes. He just responded quickly and succinctly until I ran out of questions and was forced to leave him there to sit in the rain, alone.

I returned to the car, somewhat relieved, somewhat troubled. I was glad that we had stopped, and to know his name. I was glad that we at least offered him help, even if he didn’t take it. But I was worried about him, and I wondered if he had refused further help out of shame. If I had asked differently, or if I had said something better, would he have accepted?

Over the next few weeks, I spent most of the cash I had taken from the machine. I felt a twinge of guilt each time I used it for myself, having already appropriated it in my mind to help someone else.

A couple weeks went by, and I thought I might never see him again.

Then this morning, I saw him standing still on the corner of a busy intersection, wearing the same clothes. I decided to pull into a nearby parking lot and say hello.

I greeted him by name. He cautiously returned a greeting. I asked him what he was up to. “Traveling,” he said. At his feet were a half-dozen small white plastic bags, stuffed full with his possessions, as before. I asked if I could help him with anything, or help him get anywhere. “No,” his quick reply. Then I asked if he could use some money, and this time he said yes, again in one of the softest, most unassuming voices I have ever heard.

I handed him a bill, the last of the cash I had already taken out for him several weeks ago. He didn’t say thank you, he just took it, and looked away. I had nothing left to ask him, nothing else I could think to say, so I wished him a blessed day, and walked back to my car.

I left puzzled by the fact that he was not panhandling like all of the others. He didn’t have a cardboard sign. He wasn’t asking for money. He wasn’t asking for help. And he had never tried to take advantage of me or anyone else who happened by.

As I drove away, he just kept standing there in the heat, wearing his multiple layers, gazing into the intersection, or at the other side of the street, or beyond.