The desktop was like his room, clean and generally neat. Documents were neatly labeled and sorted; again, mostly school stuff. I was surprised to find a few short and half-finished stories there—as I said, I’d never know him to be a writer. They were pretty rough, though, and in one case I wasn’t able to follow the plot thread or characters. So much for posthumous publication and literary fame, I guess.

Mike had always been the trusting sort, so all of the passwords on his computer and in his browser autocompleted—I had more or less full access to everything he’d done. And that’s where it got interesting.

It seems he’d been quite the net-hound, with memberships in multiple message boards, forums, and other kinds of internet discourse. His mailboxes were jammed with old correspondence from friends he’d probably never met, wondering where he’d gone. He’d kept an online journal of random observations on one forum, helped run some sort of weekly contest at another.

The last posts were just a day before the accident. There was a journal entry about something in one of his freshman classes, a professor’s gaffe. He’d written in a thread about funny things to yell during sex a mere six hours before we’d gotten the call; it may very well have been the last thing Mike ever wrote, the last communication he ever made.

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