"Take a potato, for example. If you cut it down the middle, you'll see that the inside is white. Now, usually, with potatoes, once you cut them, you cook them. But what if you don't?"
Walter gave a pause, although he could see that his students were barely paying attention. The silence hung over them in the absence of his words, and as he'd expected before he'd even started talking, not a single teenager raised their hand. He took a breath, once, twice, thrice, before moving to restart the flow of his lecture. Despite the lack of interest, there was an energy in his voice, a buzz as he spoke, almost as if to pretend he was faced with someone who gave a damn about chemistry. As if he wasn't wasting his time trying to share his passion with those who would never chose to listen.
"That potato will change color. It'll darken, go brown the longer it's left exposed. The reason for this, is because the flesh of the potato reacts with the air. The oxygen hits the cells that were once protected from it, and the result, of course, is change. This process is known as oxidation."
He stopped there, to write the word on the board.
"Oxidation, to oxidize. Can anyone tell me something else that oxidizes?"
No one spoke up. No one raised a hand. He clapped his together, leaned back against the blackboard, trying not to let the muscles in his jaws clench so much. They could at least pretend to be interested.
"No one? Come on, this is an easy one. Just think, what other common food changes color when it's cut, but then left out?"
He was practically giving it to them now.
One of them raised his hand.
"Yes, Jesse?"
"Like...it's apples, right? I know apples do that. That thing."
"Yes. Like apples, exactly."
Really? 'That thing?' After he just told him what it was, with the word sitting right behind him in chalk? Whatever, at least he was right. That was something, he guessed.
It was strange, the things one thought of when there wasn't much time left. He could feel it, the bullet lodged down deep between his ribs, a constant throb that beat in time with his heart. The entire right side of his body was sticky and wet, cloth clinging to the skin around the wound, noticeable every time he moved. It seemed wrong to him, that there wasn't more blood than there was. When he thought of someone getting shot, he thought of a spray, not a slow, methodic drip.
He stood there, just outside the door, his eyes on Jesse's. Jesse had denied this last request, a simple refusal to end the kingpin's life, even if he had only precious minutes left. For the first time during the entirety of their partnership, Walter didn't try to force the kid's hand. No attempts to convince or manipulate. He had, for once, accepted the rejection.
They stood now, on opposite ends of the yard. The youth who would finally find freedom, and the man who wouldn't step foot off this property alive.
There was an understanding between them. Not friendship, no, they were more than past the point where either could feel anything positive for the other. It was something else, something that went beyond either affection or hate. Walter nodded, a slight bow of his head, and Jesse responded in kind. For all the animosity between them, they had reached mutual respect.
They had gone through the same process, after all.
For almost two years, they had been exposed. They had been exposed to death, fear, crime, all manor of pain. For almost two years, together, they had fallen into this underworld, saturated themselves in blood, tears, and meth.
Oxidation was the price they both had paid.