The prison announced a mandatory seminar the next morning—suicide awareness and prevention, the kind of thing they only ever organized after a few too many close calls. Word spread fast, some inmates grumbling, others going quiet in that way people do when the topic hits too close to home.
They gathered us in the multipurpose room, the flickering lights overhead making everything look even more drained of color than usual. A social worker stood at the front with a stack of papers and a face that looked like she’d seen one tragedy too many.
She started by talking about warning signs, mental fatigue, isolation—stuff half the guys in here lived with daily. But then she brought up a name that made the room fall utterly still.
Rodney Hullin.
Even the guards stopped shifting in place when sh
