This is followed by twenty or so funny stories with some names I recognize, some I don’t. Plans for upcoming events. The Halloween party. But then, two weeks before Jay dies, the tone changes.

Jay: Feel like I’ve let you down. Very sorry.

Jay: Know you’re mad but please don’t tell anyone.

Jay: Don’t trust anyone.

Jay: Need a Xanax. Couldn’t sleep last night. I don’t think I can take this anymore.

Jay: Please talk to me.

Katie: I just need some time to think.

I remember the wreck of a girl at the Gamma Delta house. It was clear she was grieving. Why did she lie about their relationship?

I scan the messages again. I think of the restraint in this digital era, when everyone’s looking for immediate gratification, instant access, people sharing photos of what they ate for lunch and every thought that bounces off their heads, and here’s Jay allocating just one hour a day to message Katie. I imagine him tucked into a back corner machine at the gym, texting furiously while he pedals the stationary bike, in the weight room sitting on an adjustable bench, holed up in the locker room squeezing every last minute he had to see if Katie messaged him back, then coming home to find “traitor” notes shoved under his door. He wasn’t some guy who stepped blissfully out into the road, a carefree social chair whose only worry was whether or not everyone had a good time at the latest party. He was scared.

I hold the phone in my hands. I’m still wearing gloves, which might normally warrant one or two glances. But everyone seems determined not to look at me. Even the student eyeing the extra space in my booth and access to the power outlet keeps walking once she gets close enough to see my face.

I check the call log.

Nothing to or from Katie. But there’s another number.

Dozens of outgoing calls. Increasing in frequency from the beginning of November until 9:00 A.M. the morning Jay died. I frown.

I run down the call log from his other phone. Check it against every number. No match.

What the fuck? I mouth.

I pull out the sheet with his parents’ numbers, already knowing it won’t be them. I scan the dates and time stamps again. All the way to the beginning. They precede the first message to Katie by almost a year. I rearrange my picture of Jay again. This phone wasn’t for Katie at all. But the Katie messages match the rental of the locker, the gap in use of the other phone. I check the messages versus the calls, making notes on a napkin.