“It’s chickensh--.”

Quin Agee didn’t flinch, but staring at the bartender, something in him ached all the same.

He doesn’t remember how they got to the topic of suicide. His fists clenched. A blue-collar bar isn’t the usual place for this kind of talk, he thought, yet here they were.

While Quin hunched over his drink, his friend puffed up beside him.

“No, shut it,” Quin said before his friend could yell. “I was stupid like that, too.”

Cowardice. Weakness. “Chickensh--.” Quin heard it before. He was raised in Helena’s cowboy culture, spending years working manual labor in the valley.

If you had problems, you did chores. Hard work and sweat was the remedy to any ailment. When someone killed themselves, you had a drink in their honor.

For a long time, Quin was no better. If he could go

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