Jessie is standing a ways out, smoking a cigarette, hunched against the wind and staring out at the desert. She absently scuffs the dirt with her sneaker, a tic Mike had always derided as adolescent.
"Does he make you?" The words come out harsh and gruff, and so sudden they surprise Mike himself.
Jessie startles. "Of course he fucking makes me." She looks at him like he's crazy. "You were fucking there."
For a split second, Mike feels nauseous and unable to breath. Walt was forcing – how could he not have known - she had seen him – wait. "You saw me?"
She backs up a step and looks at him like he's really gone batshit now. "You were fuckin' standing in the corner with all the rest of those shitheads. You attacked my fucking friends, Mike." She jabs the cigarette at him and a centimeter a ash falls pitifully into the dust. It's the most emotion she's shown in weeks.
Mike breathes a little easier, then tries again. He shifts to look out at the murky brown horizon. "No." Goddamn, he's such a fucking coward. Can't even look at her. "Does he… force you..." His tone and the recency of the event are enough to complete his sentence for her.
"That was you!" She looks stricken. "No. I-" she flounders. "He doesn't – I mean – it's… it's not…"
Mike had prepared himself for a wrenching "yes" or even an appalled "no." He doesn't know what to make of Jessie's answer. Like every other time he's tried to pry his way into this fucked up relationship his old partners have, he feels like he couldn't be more on the outside.