The boy was placed on suicide watch after an afternoon visit to the counseling center where, with glassy eyes, he told a woman in a cardigan that he was thinking that he just didn't want to live anymore.

"What is prompting you to think this way," she asked as she played with a pen cap in her left hand.

"I just don't want to be here anymore. It's always the same. I have the same conversations with the same people every day. Sometimes I don't think it would be so bad if I got hit by a bus while jaywalking."

She listened as he continued to talk. She asked about his plans, his goals. His sentences were disconnected and his eyebrows were bunched together. He had an inflamed pimple on his left temple and his cuticles were ragged and scabbed. After twenty minutes, she led him to the door and told him to come back if he wanted to talk later.

The RD called T that evening, told her there was a resident on the ninth floor who needed to be checked on periodically. Suicide prevention was above her pay-grade (not that she got paid to RA), but she went to the ninth floor anyway, knocked on the door to 9-13 and asked to see him. Like any other boy, he was on his computer when she came in . She introduced herself, gave him a limp handshake. "I just came to check-in, to see how you're doing," she said, unsure and hoping not to offend him. He nodded and looked at the floor. "There are a lot of people who are worried about you," she offered.

This prompted a response. He looked up quickly, scared, "Have you told my parents?"

"No, should we?" He shook his head. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Don't. My mom, she'd freak out. She'd start crying and wouldn't leave me alone. And my dad, he's a good man. He's busy. He'd get worried and distracted. I won't bother them. Don't bother them."

"But do you think they should know?"

"They'll know if I do it. But I probably won't. Not now, anyway. So what's the point?"

"Is there anyone you think we should tell? A sibling, a friend? Is there someone you know who could help you deal with your, uh, your emotions right now?"

"Oh, there are people I could call. But it's a Friday night. I don't want to bother them."

T stood next to his unmade bed, looked at his dirty clothes piled in the corner, his muddy shoes, the curling edges of his Weezer poster. If she were to kill herself, she wouldn't leave a mess.

"Do you have any plans for the evening?" she asked, remembering back to her training. Always ask a suicidal person if they have plans. If they don't, get them help (but wasn't that what she was doing- helping?).

"I'll probably do some laundry," he said, "Maybe get some pizza." He didn't look up again for almost an entire minute. "You can go. You don't have to just sit and watch me."

"I'll be back in an hour," she said on her way out.

"Don't worry if I'm gone." He turned back to his computer and she closed the door.

She was afraid he actually would be gone when she knocked on the door an hour later. What would she do if a boy she'd hardly just met killed himself on her watch?

He opened the door after the third knock, his laundry was still on the floor. "Surprise," he said, "I'm alive." But with no one for him to reach out to, she hardly believed it.