As I walked across the breezeway to McDonald's, he wrote a note in his journal. The cashier handed me a burger and fries as he opened his patio door. The welcome scent of a warm meal perfumed the elevator on my ride back up. He opened the glass door and stood there, taking in the skyline. I stood at my desk and opened the bag. He pulled a wicker table to the balcony wall.  I pulled my chair to my desk. He peeked over the edge.  I peeked into the bag. I pulled a fry out as he pulled himself onto the wall. And as the sweet, salty goodness of a warm French fry exploded in my mouth, he jumped.

I finished my burger as the first police car arrived, a mere two blocks from my office. And thirty minutes later, I stood over his body and wondered what he was thinking as I was eating French fries.