“I live right over there. There’s a guy works at the carpentry shop at the shipyard. My nextdoor neighbor. Hung himself last month. Whatever was eating him, they wouldn’t even shove a handful of antidepressants down his throat to give him a break.”

“Damn,” I said, “that’s hideous.”

“Yeah, his brother found him hanging from a ceiling fan. His feet was twisted around his legs and his face looked like it was made out of dough and somebody’d squeezed it in their fist.”

He clenched his teeth and held his fist out in front of him. We three walked out of the gate in silence.

“At least he doesn’t have to work here anymore,” he admitted as a consolation.