It seemed like a good idea when you saw him on the ledge, poised on the other side of the guardrail and staring down at the water. It was nighttime, or almost nighttime, daylight falling into a tailspin of dusk, and the road was empty, and you nearly didn’t see him at all. But when you did, you slowed your car. You pulled over some twenty yards past him and doubled back on foot, heart thumping, mouth dry, running like when you were a sprinter on the high-school track team, and then you leapt over the bridge’s rail and put your hand on his jacket, and you felt something hard underneath — broken-up lumps of cement block, you’d later learn — and then you bunched the fabric of his jacket in your fingers and gripped it tight and tugged him back.