On this afternoon, he shuffles closer to the ledge, past the drainage fixture a foot or so from the glass barrier. His body is tingling, he says; his thoughts are filled with static.

“They say when you die,” Johnson says, looking down toward Southeast 1st Avenue, “you feel that euphoric feeling.”

Closer now. He’s frightened, less of the fall than the direction of his own mind.

“What would it be like,” he says, “for this to be the day for people to find out you’re not here?”