She called me, that night, asking if we could talk. I was busy, with what I'll never remember. Her dad found her the next morning, her wrists slit and her hanging from a half-collapsed shower curtain pole, footprints and bloody fingerprints showing that she hadn't really meant it, but her blood was too slippery for her to get a grip on either floor or sink. She died frightened and alone, and all I had to do to stop it was talk to her, put aside whatever I had been doing at the time. I could have saved her. . .