In my mind’s eye, I can see the card in its pink envelope sliding down the clear plastic trash can liner, alongside someone else’s mini doughnut wrapper. The bell had rung, and everyone had already gone to class. It was a sympathy card for Cliff Ashpaugh, a classmate of mine. His younger brother, Thurman, had committed suicide the week before, and although I didn’t know Cliff well—had never hung out with him outside of school—I had known him since sixth grade. He was one of several scrawny, scrappy, long-haired kids in flannel shirts and Vans who hung out in front of the office of our new high school, ironic territory for the stoners to have staked a claim to. I had known Thurman only by sight as an even scrawnier, sweeter-faced version of Cliff, also in a flannel shirt.  When I had heard of Thurman’s suicide, I was heartbroken for Cliff. The year before, the older sister, since graduated, of a popular basketball player named Samantha had died, and during