A note to listeners, this episode contains a depiction and discussion of suicide.

A Sunday evening in December 2003, Stuart Frankl rings up an order at his subway franchise

inside Miami's huge Jackson Memorial Hospital.

Frankl's a husky, straight-talking New Yorker with a brawny face of a prize fighter and

a good memory for his regulars.

Thanks, I hope your kids get over that virus quick.

See you next time.

Crudely-lettered posters cover the glass windows of his store, touting a new promotion.

Five-dollar footlongs get them here, subs for less than a dollar a foot.

You can't beat it with a stick.

Despite the late hour, a long line of customers extends out the door, all patiently waiting

to take advantage of the deal.

Frankl wipes his hands on his black slacks and turns to a young woman nestling folded

ham slices in a small stainless steel bin.

Allison, what did you handle these last few customers and then start closing up?

It's your thing.

Allison nods and takes Frankl's place behind the counter.

What can I get you, sir?

Frankl walks to the back storage room he uses as an office.

He sits down at a small desk he's wedged in a corner next to shelves of bulk mayonnaise

containers.

He opens his laptop and begins keying sales numbers into an accounting software program.

...