Walter White creaked open the door of the cramped cabin he had been slowly driving himself insane inside of for months. He nodded to the man who brought him supplies once a month and waved for him to come inside.

Hearing the man unload the truck, Walt swiftly retrieved the hunting rifle hidden under the sink, pausing for a moment to cough up some vile phlegm from his dying lungs. He panicked for a moment, wondering if he was about to make the right decision, but when he began to think about what little time he had left to live he nodded to himself and made his way to the door.

"So, Mr. Lambert," the smuggler began, "You have gotten yourself into some deep shit. You are on your own after thi-"

The shot echoed throughout the trees surrounding the prison Walt had begrudgingly grown accustomed to over the course of the last few months. As the man's body dropped to the ground, he knew he was working on borrowed time.

There was no time to hide the body, for he knew the feds were already swarming around the area looking for him. The hardest part would be getting out of town, and after that he could probably maneuver his way across the country inconspicuously with his full beard, different hats and sunglasses carefully masking his features.

"Shit. I guess this is it."

Strapping a hat around his head and throwing on his parka, Walt began to pack what remained of his money into the tank of the oil truck. Over the course of the last month, he had gone to work transporting his stacks of cash from the cumbersome black barrel it had been traveling along with him in to the cases that his Ensure and other supplies had been delivered to him in over the course of his stay here. When he ran out of boxes, he would make midnight runs to town in fits of madness from being in complete isolation to steal cardboard from recycling bins.

After taking many needed breaks from the painstaking task of repetitive lifting, Walt had loaded everything necessary into the truck. He tossed the rifle into the cab of the still-running truck, and hopped into the drivers seat. It was all or nothing now.

Luckily, the truck had a GPS already inside of it. He knew it would be a bad idea to set it to lead him directly to the place he and Jesse had agreed to meet if they ever needed to. It would need to be done in segments. Hell, he didn't even know if Jesse was alive or especially if he wanted to see him. He didn't know anything about his family except for the skeletal updates he received monthly from his supply runner.

Deep down in the darkest most pathetic part of himself, Walt hoped that Jesse even remembered the plan they touched upon just once. Maybe he was just strung out or fucked up and never thought about it again.

Behind the wheel of his only hope to ever see anyone he loved again, Mr. White carefully made his way through the fence and onto the unpaved New Hampshire street- if you could even call it that.

He began to weep to himself, more alone than he'd ever felt.

"What if I don't make it?"

The thought of crying into his pillow every night over his memories of Jesse and the prospect that he might have got him killed made things progressively worse as he managed to slink out of town without any issue.

Walter felt numb but unstoppable, and had no idea what he would do if he survived to the end of his trip only to realize that Jesse had never even thought about him again. He knew they left on bad terms, horrible terms. Walt knew he had been evil. What happened to love though? Did he deserve love? Probably not.

A few towns south, Mr. Lambert got out of his truck at a gas station to buy a pack of cigarettes.

It was all or nothing now. Nothing mattered.