Mainers are no strangers to overcast skies like the one sitting outside James Nutter's bedroom window one day last November. The leaves had fallen in Kennebunk. The first snow flurries had blanketed the small town. On the doorstep of another long Maine winter, James was staring from a year of darkness into six months of grey.
He had thrown back over a dozen shots of whiskey by early afternoon, so he was good and drunk when he sat down to write the most important letter of his life. In writing the note, he hoped to ease his family's guilt over what he was about to do with the pills sitting on his desk next to a bottle of Jack Daniels.
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