Mike rolls up the dusty drive leading to the center of their operations, a warehouse on the outskirts of Albuquerque. Walt insists on calling it "the office."
Jessie is leaning against a corner of its corrugated tin wall, smoking. She looks like the fucked-up, spaced-out, miserable little kid that used to follow Walt around in a stupor. She doesn't look like she's slept since the showdown the day before. Cigarette butts litter the dust in a circle around her.
She raises her eyes just enough to watch Mike and Walt exit the car. Walt acknowledges her presence but proceeds inside without a word. Mike hesitates, as if he's going to say "welcome back" or he doesn't know the fuck what.
Jessie takes a deep drag on her cigarette and puts it out. She follows Walt inside, shoulders still hunched and hands still balled in the pockets of her dirty sweatshirt. She doesn't look at Mike. She's a far cry, he thinks, from the confident young woman who once challenged Walter White to kill her.