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I was walking the prison track on a sunny southern California day in 2006 when a friend I’ll call Michael joined me. He looked like he could barely hold it together. His dark complexion was ashen, and there was dried toothpaste around his mouth. When I asked him how he was doing, it took a complete four seconds before he answered.

“I’m going to kill myself,” Michael said.

He said it matter-of-factly, but when I looked at him to see if he was joking, his shoulders were slumped, his head down, his eyes focused on the track immediately in front of him. I wondered if he had the same feeling I had, that any verbal misstep could terminate in disaster.

“Come on man,” I responded, with a lightness that I hoped hid the nervousness I felt. “Nothing could be that serious.”

“There’s a guy in my building that won’t verb me alone. He’s pressuring me to have sex with him.”

This threw me for a loop. I knew just about everybody on the Yard, and I was skeptical of his claim of abuse. I remembered that Michael had a reputation in our circle of friends for being overly dramatic. Often, he would bring up