Wide-eyed and scared for his life, the bartender froze in the harsh glares of the northern New Hampshire town's entire police force.
"Sir," barked the police chief, not lowering the barrel of his pistol as he offered a flash of his badge, "We need your immediate cooperation. An alert has been sent throughout the state that Walter White contacted the DEA very recently by phone to give himself up. That phone call was traced to a phone on your property."
Unable to answer, the bartender glossily eyed the sea of weapons and stern faces around him. In the distance, the treetops began to thrash about in the wake of an approaching helicopter. He cleared his throat-
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"So you're telling me you haven't seen anyone around here today who could have possibly been Walter White?" He nudged his pistol into the side of the man's face, "It doesn't seem to me like many people wander into this shithole, so you're going to tell me now- in detail- about every customer you have had today."
The bartender's face dropped, defeated by the insult. "Well, there was a man in here about half an hour ago.."
Two more police cruisers, sirens blaring, whipped into the snowy parking lot.
"He didn't look much like the man on the news," he paused to remember the man he had just come in contact with and made a strong effort to remember his features. "Just the typical New Hampshire man in winter. Beard, flannel, jacket.
"Was the man acting suspicious in any way?"
"No," he shook his head still in shock, "He came in, quietly sat at the bar, like any sad sucker who comes into this place."
"Did he ask for a drink?" the police chief prodded.
"He was a little hard to convince," the bartender appeared deep in thought and pointed to the almost untouched glass of whiskey the man had left behind. "He was sitting right here. He seemed to have just made a few very discouraging phone calls. Usually happens here. Guys come in with wife troubles, work troubles, then come over here and I make my money off selling them booze."
A few of the newcomers made their way over to the mentioned pay phone to check the phone number assigned to it, taking pictures and writing down notes for evidence. "Hey, this phone has the number he called from!"
"Excellent," he lowered his pistol and slipped his badge back into his jacket. "Sir, if you'd be willing to fully cooperate with me, I won't need to put you in cuffs. Unfortunately, I am going to take you down to the station for further interrogation as we search the premise for more evidence."
While being dragged out of his own bar, the bartender watched in utter disbelief as more and more police officers from the surrounding towns burst in through the door with flashlights and guns, searching for the countries most wanted criminal.
Meanwhile, about 6 miles away, Walter hurriedly scurried around his tiny makeshift cabin, grabbing everything he could to bring with him in what seemed like his only chance to get out of the situation. He had made sure to sprint only in tire tracks in the snow leading away from the bar to avoid leaving an obvious trail. The last supply run, he had asked for boots two times his size to stuff his feet into, wearing the three pairs of heavy wool socks he requested in order to throw off anyone who found his footprints and tried to compare them to the shoe size given in his physical description on the news. His heart rattling against his chest, and his lungs shuddering and quivering within his ribcage, he frantically ripped all of the pictures of him from the newspapers off of his wall and threw them into the woodstove.
In the distance, he heard the rumble of an engine and the crunching of snow under the truck's slow-churning wheels. It was time.