“The thing they don’t tell you about hanging is how much it hurts,” he said, “and it’s not quick. That’s why it’s such a horrible punishment. The merciful hangmen knew how to break a neck instantly, which is humane. When you hang yourself, though, the rope slices into your neck. It’s agonizing. As soon as I did it, I could see what a mistake it was, but I couldn’t get the rope off. You can’t, once it tightens around your neck and your body weight pulls you down. You kick, you pull on the rope, you fight. I was about to give up when I saw someone walk up to me. Another student, but not someone I recognized. He said, ‘You can see me, can’t you?’ And he just sort of watched me, curiously. Then he put the chair upright and walked away. I got my feet back on the chair and got the rope from around my neck and swore never, ever to take my life for granted again, no matter how bad things seemed.”

A keening siren in the distance interrupted the conversation.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I accept what I did, and I won’t do it again. I don’t tell people mostly because . . . I can’t. I can’t tell most people ‘I tried to kill myself because I couldn’t deal with my sister’s death, but I’m okay now because I was saved by a ghost.’ ”

“No,” I said. “I can see where you’re coming from with that. But how did you get from there to this? To the ghost police?”