Stephen thought he might join the Air Force and told his parents he wanted to be a pharmacist when he grew up. He seemed to be looking forward.

But it had been a difficult summer.

July 7, 2004, was a particularly bad day. It was his birthday — Stephen's first away from his mother, whom he dearly loved despite her meth and alcohol use, abusive boyfriends, suicide attempts and periodic neglect.

His desperate attempts to reach her by telephone that day failed, so he called his mental health therapist.

"(I'm) going to do something stupid like kill myself," he told social worker Michelle Capler, according to medical records. After talking, he promised the therapist not to hurt himself and agreed to meet the next day. By then, Stephen told her the suicidal thoughts had passed. He told Capler he would call her or 911 if he felt suicidal again.

On July 12, a doctor who evaluated Stephen noted "a strong family history of depression" and prescribed Prozac, records show.

Shortly after, Stephen did get in touch with his mom and spent five days with her in Carbon County. In another session with his therapist on July 19, Brandon downloaded Capler on the visit — his mother was still using meth and alcohol, and she had predicted her own death within six months.

But at home, Stephen seemed OK. He helped around the house, had tidied his room and even cleaned out his closet. He was working hard at the ranch and bought a Toyota Corolla as summer drew to a close. He had a girlfriend, which prompted cautionary words from his dad and stepmom, Tara Keele, the night of Monday, July 30, about moving too fast with her.

After the discussion, the young man said good night to them both, went into his bedroom and closed the door.

By all accounts, Stephen then stripped to his boxer shorts, folded his clothes neatly on the bed and wrote a suicide note:

"This is my final letter. I have only four minutes. My bedtime is 10 p.m. every night. I am 17 years old. I lost love for life over the pas (sic) two years. Now I have manic depression and social anxiety. I have nothing left. ... Enough is enough."

Around noon, his dad called for Stephen and found the bedroom door locked. He got the door open and found an immaculate bedroom and a piece of paper face down on the bed. Stephen's closet door, which opened and shut like an accordion, was closed. Thinking his son might have run away, Steve Cannistraci pulled open the door to see if his belongings were gone.

"There he was," his dad said, "with his back to me."

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"How could he do that?" — Mario, to his mother at Stephen's funeral, Aug. 6, 2004