Jesse felt the blood drain from his face. Instantly, he was back in that moment, standing in the doorway to Gale's apartment, pistol aimed. The gunshot echoed through his head. He remembered the way the life had blinked out of Gale's eyes, the thud of his body hitting the floor like a bag of hamburger. Just like that, in a split second, Jesse had killed a man.

And now that man was standing in front of him, whole and smiling.

"Are you…" Jesse's voice came out weak and breathless. "Are you really him?"

"I am him," Gale said. "And I am more."

Jesse's ears were ringing. He couldn't think straight. His breathing quickened.

Gale took a step forward, toward him. He reached out and touched Jesse's cheek. His fingers were warm; he didn't feel like a corpse. Still, Jesse flinched. Then, a half-second later, his mind went blank. A heavy calm settled over him like a wool blanket, smothering his panic. But the guilt remained, a dull ache in his center. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I know," Gale said gently. He lowered his hand.

Jesse gulped. Warm tears swarmed his eyes, blurring his vision. "You don't hate me?"

"No. What would be the point? Nothing I might do to you could equal the pain you've already inflicted on yourself. How many times did you relive that moment? How many nights did you lie awake, wondering if I'd felt the pain of the bullet entering my head?"

Jesse let out a shaky breath. His cheek still tingled lightly where Gale—if this really was Gale—had touched him.

He knows that. How does he know that?

"You're clearly overwhelmed," Gale said. "Would you like to sit down?"

A half-second later, there was a sleek glass-topped table and a curved, eggshell-white chair in front of Jesse. A strange device of flasks and tubes appeared on top of it; it looked like something out of a meth lab.

"I could make some coffee, if you like," Gale said. "Not to toot my own horn, but I've been told my coffee is excellent."

Jesse remained where he was. "I'm fine."

"Well, I hope you don't mind if I have some, in that case." Gale took a seat. The device was dripping coffee into a mug with the words FULL FRONTAL NERDITY printed across the side. He picked it up, took a sip, and let out a sigh. "The little pleasures never change, do they? The flesh may be gone, but the mind remembers. Perhaps the mental experience is more pure than any reality could live up to."

Jesse stood back, watching him warily. It was unnerving, just how totally calm Gale seemed. If Jesse were in his shoes, facing a man who'd shot him to save his own skin, he sure as hell wouldn't be so chill about it. Was this whole Zen-like forgiveness thing for real, or was it part of some plan?

"There's no plan," Gale said. "Scout's honor."

Shit. The guy could read his thoughts? Jesse tensed, feeling an absurd urge to cover himself, or maybe hide under something. "Stop that."

"Hm? Oh. My apologies. On the upper levels, we mostly communicate through thought. It's easy to slip up, but I will endeavor not to read anything that you don't want me to see."

"Uh...thanks." Of course, Jesse had no way to know if he was telling the truth or not.

Apparently, Gale knew who he was and what he'd gone through. The idea that Gale had been observing him all this time-not just his experiences, but his thoughts and feelings too-was freaky as hell. Could dead people watch you while you were on the toilet, or masturbating? He pushed the thought away. He had bigger things to worry about. "Just a minute ago, I was with the living room with Mr. White. So what happened? Where is he?"

"Right where you left him. He is safe, no worries. As for what happened, it's very simple. You found the door. It's as I told you; any door can be opened with the proper key. It was inside you, all along."

"That doesn't really explain a lot." Jesse crossed his arms over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps. "Just why are you here? What are you?"

Gale raised his eyebrows. "I'm not a what. I'm a who."

"Yeah, but...you know what I mean."

Slowly, he set down his coffee mug and interlaced his fingers on the table. He tapped his thumbs together thoughtfully. "There are many terms I could use. Guide, sponsor, patron, psychopomp. Thanatological midwife, perhaps."

Jesse stared blankly.

"Essentially, I volunteered to supervise your transition." His eyes held a strange, dim glow deep within, Jesse noticed—like the sheen of moonlight on water. "This is, you might say, the antechamber to the next level."

A chill climbed down the ladder of Jesse's spine. "And what's the next level?"

"Words are inadequate, I'm afraid. Some might call it heaven. I prefer the Buddhist concept of Nirvana, personally. But whatever works for you. Ultimately, our reality defies any lingual or cultural constructs from the human world; they are merely approximations. But it will be beautiful. I can promise you that."

Jesse found himself thinking about the church he'd attended as a kid, wondering what the pastor with his hellfire sermons would think about all this. Jesse wasn't even sure what he thought about it himself. It felt too easy. After everything he'd done, all the lives he'd destroyed, all he had to do was accept himself, and he got a free ticket to paradise? There had to be a catch, something he wasn't seeing.

A thought occurred to him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "Aunt Ginny...will she be there?"

"Of course."

"Andrea?" His voice came out breathless and faint. "Jane?"

"They are waiting for you."

Jane. Her smile flashed through his head. He could hold her again, breathe in her scent. They could be together. This was what he had wanted, wasn't it?

"Are they..." The words wobbled a little as he struggled to control his tone. "Are they angry at me?"

"Why would they be angry?"

"Because I..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Not out loud. Because it's my fault they're dead. Everything is my fault. "You know what happened," he muttered.

"I know, yes." He was silent for a moment, studying Jesse with those unearthly eyes that seemed to stare through him like an X-ray machine.

Somehow, the gentleness in Gale's expression just made it harder. He almost wanted the guy to get angry at him, to call him a murderer and a coward.

"Are you sure you don't want coffee?" Gale asked. "I find that a little bit of normality is helpful, in times like these."

Jesse hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm okay."

"Very well, then." He stood. The table and chair vanished, along with the coffeemaker, though the cup of coffee in Gale's hand remained. He stretched out the other hand. "Are you ready, Jesse Pinkman?"

He blinked. "For what?"

"To ascend."

"Wait. Like now?"

"What better time is there?"

This was all happening too fast. He wasn't ready. He had never felt less ready in his life. His thoughts spun. But one kept rising to the surface:

You could see her again. You could see all of them.

A pang of longing filled him, so powerful it made him dizzy. He thought about the morning after Jane's death, the awful, cold horror of waking up next to her corpse, the months of agony and mourning. He'd thought that empty space inside him would never be filled again. And now, Gale was telling him that everyone he'd ever lost was right there, waiting to welcome him back with open arms.

Would it even be her? Maybe she'd be like Gale-Jane, yet somehow more than Jane. And Andrea...would it be weird having both of them there? Or were they too spiritually evolved on the next level to be bothered by stuff like that?

"The answers to all your questions and more are waiting," Gale said. "Just follow me."

He started to reach out...then stopped. "What about Mr. White?"

Gale hesitated. A shadow slipped across his expression. "It is not his time." He looked away. "Walter's sins—to put it in spiritual terms—are considerable. He has a lot more to work through. Self-hatred, pride, shame, emotional repression, layers upon layers of self-deception. You should see the way his mind is organized." He said it in the same tone an exasperated parent might say, You should see what a mess his room is. "He has made a science out of self-deception."

"Yeah, well, I coulda told you that. But so what? Right now he's probably really confused and scared, because you decided to beam me up to this giant-ass waiting room without even bothering to ask first."

Another pause. "I don't make the rules, Jesse."

"You're saying you can't bring him up?"

Gale shook his head.

The guilt, confusion and fear were all still there in a tangle knot inside his chest, but for the first time since waking up, Jesse felt something else-a hot flicker of anger. He clung to it, fed it. It was better than the alternatives. "What? You'll get punished or something? Is there a Gus Fring archangel on the next level, waiting to ice anyone who steps out of line with his Holy Box Cutter?"

"It isn't like that. There's no hierarchy here. No one is punished. It simply can't be done."

"Well, why not?"

"Because he isn't ready." For the first time, a hint of emotion-frustration-crept into Gale's voice. He stopped and breathed in, as if composing himself. "Trying to bring him up would be like...like breaking open a caterpillar's cocoon before it's finished transforming. It would destroy him."

This...this wasn't right. He couldn't leave Mr. White. "Then let me go back. Let me stay with him until he's ready."

Gale shook his head. "That wouldn't work, either. You can't stuff a butterfly back into its cocoon."

Jesse paced, running his hands through his hair. "Okay, well, I'll wait here then. How long is it gonna take?"

"I don't know. It might be another month. It might be a century. Or longer."

Jesse's stomach dropped. "Longer?"

"You must understand, my job is merely to guide and supervise. I don't control what happens or when. You made the decision to let go of your past and forgive yourself. No one can do that for you. In fact, when more advanced spirits interfere too much, it can actually hinder the process. It must be a choice, freely made for no ulterior purposes."

"But that's not fair! He helped me. Who's going to help him? Can you—I don't know. Can you like, go down there yourself? Or send someone?"

Gale looked at him sadly. "If I could, I would. You may find it difficult to believe, but I care about Walter, too. He was my friend, a man I greatly admired...even if things didn't end so well between us. I would like nothing more than to help him. But it doesn't work that way."

Jesse gritted his teeth. He didn't trust those mournful brown puppy eyes. Gale was hiding something, holding something back, he was sure of it. "I'm not going anywhere without Mr. White. You said we're in control of what happens to us, right? Well, that's my choice. There's got to be some way."

Gale's fingers tightened, almost imperceptibly, around the handle of his mug. "Jesse—I told you, it is not within my power. You must accept that certain things can't be changed—"

"Bullshit! You're a fucking magical spirit! You're telling me there's nothing you can do?" He glared at Gale. "Walt is my partner. So if you want me, you gotta take him too. Bitch."

Gale's expression turned cool and empty, as if his face had suddenly become a mask. A bead of sweat trickled down Jesse's back. For a moment he wondered if he'd made a mistake, crossed a line. Maybe he'd just blown his own chances as well as Mr. White's; maybe Gale would snap his fingers and Jesse would burst into fire, or melt into a puddle of screaming human goo. As the silence stretched on, his heart beat faster and faster.

Gale took a slow, thoughtful sip of coffee and licked his lips. "You want to rescue him," he said. "Is that it?"

"Yes. That's what I want. You-you're saying there's a way?"

"It is possible. Theoretically. But it would be risky."

"We're already dead. What do we have to lose?"

But even as the question left his mouth, Jesse knew better. There were fates much worse than death.

"When you try to force a transition," Gale said, "the usual rules don't apply. Things become…unpredictable. Volatile. If you go back for him, you could become trapped in a prison of your own memories, or his, with no hope of escape."

Jesse balled his hands into fists, nails digging into the meat of his palms. He found himself thinking about the pit...the endless hours spent in that dark hole, crying quietly to himself and knowing that no one heard, no one cared. The gnawing hunger. The cold. The knowledge that when his captors came, he would be too weak to fight them. He would do whatever they wanted. That was what he remembered, more than anything; the completely and utter helplessness. The despair. Could he end up stuck in a place like that forever?

For a moment, Jesse wondered if he was crazy to even think about going back. Maybe he should let Mr. White work through his own shit. He'd get out on his own eventually. Right?

Focus on yourself. They used that line in rehab a lot. Recovering addicts weren't supposed to get too mixed up in each other's shit. It became a distraction, trying to help others when you were too screwed up to even look after yourself.

Maybe it was good advice for junkies. But after awhile, that line started to feel too much like a mantra. Too much like an excuse to just not care.

Jesse's worst nightmare was Mr. White's reality. He was alone in that cold, empty place, nothing to do but replay his own memories. No one grew or changed when he was alone. If Jesse abandoned him now, they'd probably never see each other again. And he knew from experience-being abandoned was the worst thing in the world.

Jesse looked Gale in the eye. "I'll do it. Whatever I have to do. I don't care about the risk."

Gale didn't seem surprised. "Think carefully. You are potentially turning down a chance to be reunited with your loved ones—to be happy, to be at peace. All that for a man who lied to you, manipulated you-"

"I don't give a fuck. You really think I'm gonna skip town and abandon my partner? I'm not a pussy, yo."

Gale let out a small sigh. "I thought you might say that."

Suddenly there was a set of steel doors standing upright next to Gale. No wall or anything, just doors. "Go then," Gale said. "Retrieve him, if you can."

Jesse walked slowly around the doors. From the other side, there was nothing there. It was like some weird optical illusion. It made his head hurt. He circled back around again, and they reappeared. He touched a finger to the cold metal. "So like, where will this take me? Back to that place?"

"Not exactly." He paused. "The truth is, even I'm not sure what you'll find on the other side. But I can tell you this: when you get there, you need to locate Walter and convince him to accompany you. Bring him back through the door. Do it quickly, because the door may not stay there for long."

"Right." Jesse dried his sweat-damp palms on his pants.

"Be warned, he may not come willingly. There is no prison stronger or more difficult to escape than the prisons people build for themselves. And, as I am sure you are aware, Walter White is a very stubborn man."

"Tell me about it," Jesse muttered.

He still didn't really understand any of this. But thinking too much and trying to figure this out would only make this harder. He studied the doors, but there were no knobs or latches, no way to open them. "So how do I—"

The doors slid open, revealing the clean and ordinary-looking interior of an elevator. The floor was carpeted in faded blue, the walls beige. Jesse swallowed, mouth dry. This was it. Find Mr. White. Convince him to leave. How hard could it be?

"Good luck, Jesse."

"Thanks." He hesitated, feeling suddenly awkward and uncertain. "I really am sorry. For what I did. You didn't deserve that. I mean...I guess I didn't know you, really. But you seem like a nice guy."

A slight smile softened Gale's face. "So do you."

I'm not, though. Not at all.

Jesse braced himself and stepped into the elevator. The doors slid smoothly shut.

After a moment, the elevator started to move. There were no numbers, but he could tell from the sinking feeling in his stomach that it was going down. He stood there for what felt like a very long time, until finally, the elevator halted with a lurch, and the door slid open, revealing…a playground?

The sky was a flat, cloudy white, the air misty. Trees loomed, dim shapes in the fog. A swing swung back and forth, rusted chains squeaking. There was a slide, a set of monkey bars, a jungle gym, and one of those wooden horses on a spring...but no kids. No one around at all.

Jesse stepped forward, out of the elevator. Wood chips crunched under his feet. When he looked over his shoulder, the elevator doors were still there; the sight reassured him. This place was seriously creepy.

He walked forward, through the playground. Beads of water glistened on the bars of the jungle gym. He touched the metal, and his hand came away wet with condensation.

What was this place?

"Hello?" he called. His voice echoed through the silence. The swing squeaked.

He decided it was more sad than creepy. Something about empty playgrounds always made him feel lonely.

Then he noticed a little boy, maybe five or six, sitting alone in the corner of the playground—a little boy with mouse brown hair, a white button-down shirt, and blue shorts. He was playing with Tinker Toys. He didn't look up; he didn't seem to notice Jesse. Or maybe he was deliberately ignoring him.

"Holy shit," Jesse whispered.

It was him. It had to be. But it was just so fucking weird seeing Mr. White as a little kid. He was so...tiny.

He raised his voice. "Yo, Mr. White! That you?"

The boy flinched and hunched his skinny shoulders. Still, he didn't look up.

Jesse approached. "Hey. Are you—"

"Stop," he said in a small, soft voice.

Jesse froze and looked down. The kid had arranged some of his Tinker Toys in a circle around himself, linking them up so they formed a sort of fence. Jesse had almost stepped on it. "Oh. Sorry." He took a step back.

The boy lowered his head and returned to building whatever he was building.

"Hey…" Jesse cleared his throat. "Uh. Can we talk?"

"You can stay, if you want," the boy said in his soft, almost inaudible voice. "But you have to sit outside the circle." He pointed to his fence of Tinker Toys.

"How come?"

"This is my place. No one can come inside."

"Oh. Okay." If it was a game, he could play along. Jesse sat down on the woodchips and folded his arms over his knees. He wondered what he was supposed to do, exactly. But he had the clear sense that he couldn't rush this. He glanced over his shoulder again, assuring himself that the door was still there. "Doesn't it get lonely, staying in there all the time? Aren't you bored?"

The boy didn't respond.

"Walt," Jesse said. "Your name is Walt, right?"

"My mom says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Jesse hesitated. "Well, sure, but we aren't strangers. My name's Jesse. We're partners. Remember?"

Mr. White—Walt—froze, clutching one of the wooden toys. His fingers tightened around it, knuckles turning white. "You shouldn't be here." He whispered the words, as if afraid of being overheard.

"Why not?" When Walt didn't answer, Jesse said, "Hey. Are you okay?"

Slowly, Walt raised his head. When Jesse saw his face, his stomach tightened. There was a ring of dark, bruised flesh around one eye and a gash on his cheek. The skin around it was discolored, mottled purple and brown.

Jesus. Just looking at the injury left Jesse feeling cold and sickened. "Who did that to you?"

Walt's expression tightened, and his gaze jerked away. "No one." His lower lip quivered a little, and he bit down on it, hard. "I fell."

He remembered what Mr. White had told him earlier, about how he'd gotten beat up at school. But Jesse had imagined it happening to him in high school. He'd never guessed it had started this young. Jesse was already starting to get that achey, twisty feeling in his chest he got whenever he saw a little kid scared or in pain. "You don't have to lie, you know. Not to me."

Walt's eyes were a bright, startling green, and wet with tears. They were eyes that Jesse knew well, and yet utterly unfamiliar, staring at him out of that small, innocent face.

Jesse smiled, trying to look nonthreatening. Walt didn't seem to want to talk about the bruises, so Jesse tried to think of a way to change the subject. He glanced down at the array of Tinker Toys, linked together in vaguely familiar shapes that made him think of chemistry class. "Those are molecules, right?"

Walt tensed up. His hand drifted to his face and touched the bruise on his cheek.

"Hey, it's cool. There's nothing wrong with liking science stuff. Actually it's pretty awesome. I used to think it was lame, but that's just 'cause I was a dumb-ass."

The corners of Walt's mouth twitched upward. It was the faintest shadow of a smile, but it was something.

Encouraged, Jesse said, "You wanna hear a science joke?"

Walt nodded.

"You know where noble gases come from?"

"Where?"

"Emperors' farts."

Another tiny twitch of a smile. "That's silly."

"It's a joke, dude. You can smile, y'know...it doesn't hurt, I promise." And then he realized-with those bruises on Walt's face, it actually might hurt. He wished he had something to give him for that. An ice-pack, or bandages. Anything.

Walt lowered his head and resumed playing with his Tinker Toys, breaking them apart and linking them together again.

Jesse cleared his throat. "Hey...how about we get out of here?"

"To where?"

"I dunno. Somewhere better. This place…there's nothing here, man. It's all just ghosts." He gestured to the trees, the abandoned playground equipment.

"I can't leave."

"Sure you can." He felt kind of skeevy, trying to lure a kid off of a playground. Even if that kid was actually his fifty-year-old former chemistry teacher, and this playground didn't even technically exist. "I mean, you're not happy here, are you?"

Walt froze. For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. Then he started to shake. He sniffled and rubbed at his eyes.

"Hey…" Jesse's voice softened. He started to stretch out a hand. As soon as his fingertips extended past the circle of toys, a burning, prickling pain rushed down his arm, and he yanked it back, breath hissing between his teeth.

Walt's head snapped up, eyes widening.

Jesse looked down at his fingertips, which had reddened and blistered.

"I warned you," Walt said. His breathing had quickened. He scooted backwards. "Don't come any closer. Or I'll hurt you more." It didn't sound like a threat. He sounded scared. His voice hitched, as if he were about to break down into tears.

"It's okay," Jesse said. He blew on his stinging fingers. "No biggie. Nothing some band-aids won't fix."

"You should go." Walt balled his hands into trembling fists and pressed them against his temples as he huddled on the ground. "I'm bad. I hurt everyone."

"That's not true."

Walt had started to rock back and forth, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, tight little white-knuckled fists still pressed against his head. "Go. Now. Before it's too late."

Overhead, thunder growled. The sky darkened, and a cold wind swept in. The trees swayed, branches whispering together. Jesse looked around, startled. Behind him, white mist slipped across the door, obscuring it.

Walt let out a soft whimper.

"Hey," Jesse said, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. "It's okay. Everything's gonna be okay. Just let me in. Let me help you."

"I can't," he said. "I can't."

The wind picked up, lashing the trees. A bright blue lightning bolt arched down from the sky and struck a nearby tree. It fell, creaking, and crashed to the ground just yards away.

"Walt, come on! We've got to get out of here!" Jesse lunged forward, prepared to scoop him up and carry him out by force if he had to—but as soon as his outstretched hands touched the air above the circle, pain seared through him. An impact jolted him to his bones, and then he was flying backwards. He landed on the ground, splayed on his back, his chest empty and hurting. For a terrifying few seconds he couldn't draw breath, then air rushed into his lungs, and he gasped like a beached fish. Shaking, he sat up and stared dazedly at his hands. The palms were scorched black, the flesh cracked and bleeding. The burns extended up his arms in long, red lines of blisters. His sleeves had been partially incinerated.

Walt was huddled in a tiny ball on the ground, face hidden against his knees, still rocking back and forth, faster and faster. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

The door was no longer visible. The mist was closing in, swirling around them.

Jesse's hands throbbed. Slowly, he curled them into fists. It hurt like a bitch, like his hands had been dipped in acid. The pain was a stark reminder of the danger.

This was Walt's mind. He had all the power here. He could probably fry Jesse like a gnat in a bug zapper, if he wanted. But Jesse didn't believe that he would. This—this was theatrics designed to scare him off, because this was what Walt did whenever he was feeling vulnerable. He pushed people away.

Jesse wouldn't let him. Not this time.

He rose to his feet and walked back toward the circle. The wind rushed around him, howling in his ears, whipping the mist into shapes like rearing demons. The sky had gone totally black. More lightning arched and flashed through the sky, dancing between clouds. "Walt," he said, his voice firm, "look at me."

Walt kept his face downcast, his body curled into itself like a pillbug. But the wind died down, and the thunder quieted. "This is where I belong," Walt said. He spoke softly, mechanically; his voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far away. "I deserve this."

"Bullshit."

"Just go." His voice cracked. "You got out, didn't you? You're free. So why did you come here?"

Jesse's hands still burned, and the air was filled with electricity; he could taste it on the tip of his tongue, like copper, could hear it crackling.

Why had he come here? There was nothing keeping Walt in this prison except his own stubbornness. He could leave anytime.

But Jesse knew it wasn't that simple. He knew because he'd been in this place a thousand times-this endless cycle of self-loathing, kicking himself, blotting out the pain any way he could, then despising himself even more for his cowardice. It was like one of those paper finger traps, where the harder you pulled to get free, the tighter it got.

He drew in a deep breath. "There's something they told me in rehab. Guilt and self-hatred, it doesn't accomplish anything. Punishing yourself, it's just another way to avoid real change. You have to move forward. Isn't that what you were always telling me? That we shouldn't focus on the darkness of the past?"

Walt remained where he was, huddled in a tiny ball.

"That's who you are, Walt. You're a survivor. Maybe you made a lot of bad choices, but you kept going. You kept trying. So where's all that willpower now? Where's the guy who went head to head with Tuco and got him to pay up? Where's the crazy, brilliant, ruthless son of a bitch who outsmarted Gus Fring, who built his own meth empire from a box of supplies from a high school chemistry lab?"

Still, no response.

"You are the smartest person I've ever known. You barged into my world and turned it inside out and put me through some of the most terrifying experiences of my life, but I let you do it, and I kept coming back to you, because I wanted to see where you'd go and what you'd do next. I wanted to be part of it. Even when I hated your guts, I respected you. I wanted you to respect me. You saved our skins more times than I can count, and even when it seemed like there was no possible way we could get out of our latest fuck-up, you made a way. You made me like chemistry, for God's sake. But you can't step out of that circle and walk over to the doors standing right there?"

The silence stretched between them. And then, finally, Walt spoke. His voice was a little boy's, but his tone was all too adult—weary, defeated. "It was all fake, Jesse. Everything you saw in me. I wasn't moving forward. I was running. I didn't even know how to stop. And it never worked. Deep down, I was still scared. I've always been scared, for as long as I can remember."

"Who isn't? You think I wasn't scared? I never knew how to deal with life either. But shutting yourself away from the people who want to help you sure as hell doesn't work."

Still, he didn't look up, but his tone took on a cold, stubborn slant that Jesse recognized all too well. "I don't deserve help. And I don't need you trying to convince me that I do. I know what kind of person I am."

"It's not about what you deserve. That's the whole point of love. You don't have to deserve it. It's not something you can earn. It's free."

Slowly, Walt raised his head. A tiny furrow appeared between his brows.

"I can't force you to leave," Jesse said quietly. "But I'm telling you, now-you can, if you want to. You don't have to keep punishing yourself. You can walk out anytime."

"And what if I don't?"

"Then I'll stay here with you."

Silence hung over the empty playground. There was only a faint, lonely wind, still ghosting through the treetops.

"Why?" Walt whispered.

"Because that's what I choose. I'm not going anywhere if I have to leave you behind."

Walt drew in a deep, shaky breath and slowly raised one hand. He clenched it into a fist…then brought it down, scattering the ring of Tinker Toys. There was a jolt. A shock wave rippled outward from the broken circle, vibrating through the ground under Jesse's feet.

And then six-year-old Walt lurched to his feet, ran toward Jesse, and flung his arms around his legs, hugging them tightly. It caught Jesse off guard; he staggered a little and nearly toppled over, then managed to get his balance at the last minute.

He wrapped his arms around Walt. Pain flared along the nerves in his wounded hands. He ignored it. "It's okay. I got you. I'm not letting go."

"You promise?" Walt whispered, hiding his face against Jesse's stomach.

"I promise."

Jesse held him until his rapid breathing slowed. He noticed that the sharp burn of his injuries had died down to a dull ache. When he raised one hand, he saw that the bleeding cracks in his palm had closed. The red patches were shrinking. He was too relieved to question it.

Walt lightly touched the back of his wrist. "Does it hurt?"

"Nah. Come on. Let's get out of here."

They started to walk toward the doors. Walt hung back, clutching at Jesse's pant leg, biting his lower lip. "I...I don't know if-"

Jesse crouched and scooped Walt up into his arms.

Walt squirmed like a cat. "Put me down!" There was a hint of the old, prideful indignation in his voice. "I'm not a child."

Jesse smiled. It was funny to hear him say that in his little kid voice. And, he had to admit, it was satisfying to be able to pick up the great Heisenberg. Weird, how easy it was. He was so light. "Is it really so awful to have someone carry you?"

Walt hesitated. He glanced at the doors...then slipped his arms around Jesse's neck and held on. "No," he murmured. "It's not that bad."

Jesse carried him into the elevator.


Walt felt himself rising slowly, like a bubble to the surface of a pond. When he opened his eyes, his vision was blurry. He realized his glasses had fallen off. Fumbling, he picked them up off the floor and slid them into place. He was lying on his back on the floor of a vast, luminous white room.

"Hey, Mr. White." A familiar face smiled down at him. "We made it."

"Jesse," he whispered.

Jesse extended a hand. Dazed, Walt took it, and his partner helped him to his feet.

Walt looked down at his own hands, turning them over. They were a man's hands once again, lined and grooved with age. "Where are we?"

"Hard to explain. It's like a cosmic waiting room, kind of."

His memories of what had just transpired were dim. He'd fallen asleep and had a dream, hadn't he? A dream of being six years old again, in the playground at his old school. Jesse had been there, and there had been despair and pain and terror and then overwhelming relief...a feeling of warmth and safety, peace and lightness, like floating. Yes, he remembered. Jesse had picked him up and carried him. The thought brought considerably less shame than he would have expected.

Altogether, he felt amazingly good-healthier than he could remember feeling for a long, long time. The pain of the cancer was gone, but it was more than that. It was as if he could breathe fully after a lifetime of having iron bands wrapped around his ribs. There was a sense that he had...surrendered, in some way.

But maybe that was the wrong word. He had not given up. He had let go. Walt had never understood the difference, until now.

"You came back for me," he said.

"Of course I did," Jesse said. "You're my partner."

Walt was not a spiritual man. Chemistry was the closest thing he'd ever had to a religion. But in that moment, he knew the meaning of salvation—undeserved, outside of his own control, given for the sake of being given. He tried to speak, but his throat had tightened, cutting off his voice.

"Hey…" Jesse's voice, soft with concern. He reached out and touched his arm. "Walt?"

He struggled for a few more seconds before he managed to whisper the words, "Thank you."

It was ironic, he thought. He had been so intent on rescuing Jesse, so convinced it was his job to shepherd his young partner. But in the end, Jesse was the one who had lifted him up out of hell.

Or maybe they had saved each other.

"Well done," said a voice.

Walt tensed and looked up. When he saw the figure standing in front of them, his chest turned hollow. "Gale."

"It's cool," Jesse said quickly. "He's on our side."

Gale inclined his head toward Walt. There was an odd, almost mischievous smile on his face. "I must admit, I'm impressed. I wasn't entirely sure you could do it. But you came through, both of you. It's good to see you again, Walt."

Walt opened his mouth, but he couldn't find words. "Gale…I…"

Gale held up a hand. "No apologies, please. They aren't necessary. Just follow me. There will be plenty of time to talk later. And we have a lot to talk about." He turned and began to walk.

They followed, Walt still floating in a cloud of numb astonishment. None of this made sense. This place was beyond anything he could fathom. He felt humbled, small and insignificant. And yet, strangely, he wasn't afraid.

Their footsteps echoed through the vast emptiness as Gale led them. The room stretched on and on; it was cool, pristine, unearthly. Eventually, they reached a wall, and in the wall was a small, simple wooden door.

After you," Gale said.

Walt and Jesse looked at each other. Walt's heart hammered against the wall of his chest, and he saw his own uncertainty reflected in Jesse's eyes. Through that door lay the unknown; a world beyond equations, beyond chemistry, beyond flesh and blood and money.

"No matter what's on the other side," Jesse said, "we stay together."

Walt nodded. "Partners," he agreed.

"Fifty-fifty."

"Always."

Jesse opened the door. Beyond was light, pure and warm.

Walt took his hand. And they stepped through, together.

-The End