Among his leavings, a senior high school yearbook, a photo with him in it: "The boys clown around on stage."
They had to open him, thirty-two years later. His blood had gone to powder. He sucked in, and slumped with the on-air sign burning. His face was ashen.
The body would not tolerate its rescuers. When they came back, they said things had fallen apart, maybe even through their hands, hands trained to the lightest touch.
Like brick dust from a weary kiln, they carried him out, a pail at a time.