When I was a chaplain in Cambridge, there was one student—gorgeous, witty, kind-hearted, clever—who used to visit me every so often, usually after lunch, and sit sideways on one of my armchairs and we would drink tea and think of reasons to postpone suicide. We always found at least a couple. Trees, I remember, were one. The harm to the person who found your body was another. “Is there a support group?” I remember asking tentatively at one point. “Yes. I run it,” he replied. Like many members of the university, he’d been in and out of the hospital too.