I cast a longing look at my sandwich before I toss it in the trash and groan as we begin trucking our way back up the tree-lined corridor. Teddy finishes his in one large bite.

“You’re the one who wanted to park on Clayton,” he murmurs as he sidesteps a student in headphones.

It’s three o’clock and the service—or whatever it is—has already started, so we stand in the back of the chapter room. In the front is a table draped with a black cloth and a large portrait of Jay—not unlike what you might find at a real memorial. He’s a few years younger, and the marbled gray background makes me think of high school senior photos. There’s a pseudo monopoly here—one family runs Athens school photography—so they all have the same head tilt, smile, catch-the-gleam-in-your- eye kind of thing going on. I find myself wondering how the brothers managed to pull this together so quickly. Jay’s been dead just over twenty-four hours, and they already have a blown-up portrait. Or maybe they all have overlarge photos hanging on a wall somewhere and there’s a wide gap where Jay’s used to be.

Spread across the table is a collection of items: a bobblehead bulldog, a red UGA jersey, a can of Mountain Dew, a Burger King crown, and a handful of smaller things I’d need to get closer to to identify. Sixty or so young men and less than half that number of women hunch in small groups along the side walls or slouch in folding chairs. Most are dressed in black, but a handful didn’t get the memo. There’s a girl in a jean skirt and an oversized sweatshirt that says PART BEAR in bold letters and a boy in sky-blue shorts and flip-flops, but he’s blinking back tears, and I don’t think it’s for anyone’s benefit other than his own. I’m still waiting on photographs of all the fraternity members. But I scan the crowd, looking for faces that resemble Jay’s. For twitchy behavior. Guilty expressions. It’s likely that whoever did this got the hell out of town, but if he didn’t, there’s a good chance he’s in this room.

Michael stands at the front in a crisp black button-down, hair swooped back with some kind of pomade, and is talking about how last weekend he and Jay went fishing—just the two of them at a lake house, so peaceful—“And you know what he said to me?”—sniff—“he said, ‘If this was it, man, if this was all there is—I think I’d die happy.’”

Tight sobs around the room.