while back, I was the guest of an Arkansas deer club whose members were still reeling from the suicide of one of their own two years earlier. Barry’s death had exploded the lives of everyone who loved him. Time had blunted their grief but hadn’t brought understanding. His best friend, Mike, found the body on the floor of the box blind and gave the dead man CPR until an EMT physically pulled him off. Mike was still haunted by Barry’s last words, the ones they always said before a hunt. “Good luck out there today. I love you.” Mike couldn’t make it compute. How does a man erase himself and abandon his friends forever as casually as if stepping outside for a smoke?