Jesse wakes up to something—or someone—licking his hand. He pries one eye open and sees the dog at his bedside. The mutt isn't a breed Jesse's ever seen before. He's got fox-like features and coloring, short reddish-brown fur that fades into a white undercoat on the throat, forechest, and chest. There's a US flag handkerchief tied around his neck, just above his collar. His eyes are big, beady, black orbs that remind Jesse of the infamous lines from Jaws: You know the thing about a shark, he's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye; when he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'.

But this pup looks friendly enough. Jesse risks a scratch behind the dog's ears, and he'd swear he saw the mutt smile. Maybe that's why he smiles himself.

Jesse spends about ten minutes mindlessly petting the dog before he drags himself into the shower. He thinks the hot water and steam might help rejuvenate his weary soul. It doesn't, but he does feel a bit better.

Baby steps.

Jesse wraps a towel around his waist and steps out. When he wipes a hand over the fogged mirror, he recoils at the sight of his reflection.

The scars make his face look like a road map of tragedy. His eyes bear dark, deep circles beneath them, sleep-starved for half a year. His hair is long and matted, beard wild and untamed.

Jesse sighs to himself, hands braced on the sink. What will he do now that he can no longer use his looks to his advantage? He never had much in this life, but his physical gifts were always a card he could use when he needed it. Now... Good fucking luck.

At least he can do something about the beard. Jesse finds a razor in the cabinet and does the best he can.

Saul hears Jesse's bare feet stepping over the kitchen tile as he's brewing up a pot of coffee. "G'morning. Feel any better?"

Jesse makes a grumbly noise.

"Okay, well, one day at a time, right? You want breakfast?" A chair drags across the floor.

"Yeah, sure," Jesse says, sounding entirely unenthused.

"Hey, don't let me twist your arm." Saul turns to face him, and that's when he sees Jesse's new—er, old—look. Gone is the Grizzly Adams beard, replaced with more familiar stubble. Even his hair's buzzed short to resemble the Jesse Saul knew before Walt sent everything crashing down.

It's a good look for the kid, Saul thinks.

"Wow, look at you all cleaned up! I knew the old Jesse Pinkman was in there somewhere." Jesse barely manages a half-smile, but it's a start. Saul turns back to his coffee pot and pours himself a cup. "So, how'd'ya take your coffee? Personally, I'm a fan of black—just like my men."

Jesse blows air out of his nose in a way Saul thinks is supposed to be a laugh. Saul smiles to himself. "That was a joke. I need a little cream and sugar in my life."

"I don't like coffee," Jesse says after a moment.

"How 'bout orange juice? You like orange juice? I could pour some champagne in it, spice things up a bit. Make you feel like a East Coast millionaire on brunch." Saul knows he's just rambling; it's what he does when he's nervous. And, yeah, he's always been slightly on edge around Jesse, because Jesse's a brooding little firecracker. Saul doesn't know how to get through to someone like that, save for spewing out verbal diarrhea until something prickles a nerve.

Now, more than ever, Saul wishes he knew the proper words to get Jesse talking.

"Orange juice is fine." Jesse's got his head propped against one hand, the other flipping through papers and catalogues in the middle of the dining table.

Saul fetches the carton from the fridge and pours him a glass over ice. "Good choice. You look like you need a lot of vitamin C. Don't want you gettin' scurvy."

Jesse drags the glass closer once it's filled. His brows knit together in confusion. "I thought that was a pirate thing." He doesn't drink, just stares at the drink like it might hold the secrets to life.

"You really wanna take the chance?"

Jesse rubs his thumb over a bead of condensation on the glass before taking a small sip.

"How do you feel about muffins?" Saul asks, moving over to the stove. "Because, not to brag, but I make the best damn muffins in Douglas County. Okay, I'm bragging a little, but I'm allowed to; I won the ribbon."

Jesse's quiet for a moment, then the sound of his laughter fills the air. It's soft and understated, but he's definitely laughing.

"What, you don't believe me?"

"No, I totally believe you," Jesse manages through chuckles. "I just never pictured you being some State Fair prize-winner for muffins."

Saul's life here feels miles away from the one he lived in Albuquerque. Gardening, dogsitting, and baking blueberry muffins is a one-eighty-degree turn from facilitating illegal activities. It's like moving to Omaha turned him into a geriatric old woman; next he'll be screaming at Jesse to turn up the thermostat.

"You won't be laughing when you try them."

"Yeah, I will, 'cause it'll still be funny." This is the first real smile Saul's seen on Jesse's face in ages. He's willing to be the comic relief if it keeps Jesse's spirits up.

Jesse's on his second glass of orange juice when he asks, "So what's with the name? I thought the new identity thing was s'posed to make you harder to find."

"You're assuming either part of my name is real," Saul says, taking the muffins out of the oven.

"Your first name isn't really Saul?" Jesse sounds like he doesn't understand anything anymore.

"You think Irish parents are gonna give their kid a Hebrew name? C'mon."

Jesse chews his bottom lip for a moment. "So the McGill part is real, right?"

"What's in a name anyway?" Saul asks with a shrug. "Shakespeare had it right: 'that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"

Jesse scrunches up his face. "Did you just quote Shakespeare?"

Saul gives him a look as if to say, "What's wrong with that?"

Jesse mouths, "Wow," and shakes his head in disbelief.

Bark Lee's claws clack on the kitchen tile as he trots to his bowl. Jesse watches him. "What's the dog's name?"

"Bark Lee."

"Like Charles Barkley?"

"No, like Geddy Lee." A beat, then: "My neighbors are really big Rush fans. I love 'Fly by Night' as much as the next guy, but not when I can hear it blaring from their place at two in the morning."

Jesse's eyebrows pull together. "So where are they?"

"Council Bluffs. Across the river. They won the lottery a while back and are still finding creative ways to piss away the winnings. This time it's casinos."

"People actually win the lottery?"

"Yep, and the people who win are exactly the kind of people you'd think: rednecks," Saul says, doling the muffins out. Jesse picks one up and sniffs it, curious. "Rednecks like ol' Buck and Billy Ray."

Jesse's mouth drops open. "Fuck you, those are not their real names."

"Says the guy with a friend named Badger."

"It's not like that's on his birth certificate."

Saul just smiles and taps Jesse's plate. "C'mon, kid, eat up. It wouldn't hurt to put some meat on your bones." Jesse plucks at the muffin wrapper and peels it away. He edges off a piece, watches the steam climb out. "It's not gonna bite," Saul says, because Jesse's eyeing the thing like it might come to life and destroy the city.

Jesse pops the morsel into his mouth. He chews it over for a moment before mumbling, "'Sgood."

"See? What'd I tell ya? I went with chocolate chip this time 'cause you seem like you got a sweet tooth. Blueberries don't strike me as your style."

Jesse nods and stuffs another piece into his mouth. There's a smudge of chocolate on his thumb that Saul wants to lick away. He isn't sure why he has that urge, just that he does, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. It's not like Jesse isn't attractive, but the last time Saul was in the same room with him Jesse was pointing a gun in his face. Maybe he's got an unexplored fetish; that would explain so much.

But the fire's gone from Jesse's eyes now, no spark of vengeance or righteous anger. Just...nothing. God, Saul's such a sucker for the lost ones.

The moment's over almost as soon as it appeared, because Jesse brings his thumb to his mouth and wraps his lips around the digit. Saul turns his back on him to keep the lecherous thoughts at bay.

After breakfast, Saul's cleaning up the kitchen when Jesse asks, "You work today?"

"Hell no, it's my day off, and I plan to spend it on the couch with my best friend Netflix." He tosses a glance over his shoulder. "You're welcome to join me if you don't have anything better to do."

Jesse shakes his head. Saul bites back the urge to ask, "What happened to you, kid?" because the last time he saw Jesse even half this lifeless was after the death of his girlfriend.

"What do you even watch?"

"Comedies, mostly," Saul says with a shrug. "I miss the eighties like a long lost lover, so most of my queue's made up of John Hughes films and shmaltzy sit-coms."

"Do you ever watch anything, like, from this decade?"

Saul thinks that's a jab at his age or his taste—or both. Bark Lee scampers into the living room and hops onto the empty recliner. "At least he doesn't bitch about my taste in entertainment," Saul argues, looking at the dog for reassurance.

"Because he can't." Jesse smirks, and Saul feels his heart swell in his chest.

"If you think you're too good for Tommy Boy, I don't think we can be friends. C'mon, where else you gonna go that has free TV and pizza?"

Jesse thinks about it for a moment and sits on the far end of the couch.

They spend the first half of the afternoon watching feel-good comedies and sharing a pizza. Jesse's quiet and reserved at first, but by the time they're halfway through Planes, Trains, & Automobiles he's laughing like he's been sniffing gas. Saul wants to hold onto the sound as long as he can. He can't remember the last time he ever heard Jesse laugh or saw him smile without a burden of pain behind it.

Saul hopes he can infuse some color into Jesse's dark and dreary world.

A loud rumble sounds from somewhere down the street. Bark Lee's ears perk up. He hops off of the recliner and trots to the front door, screeching as the rumbling gets closer. Jesse makes a face and looks over at Saul. "Is he supposed to scream?"

"Yeah, he does that sometimes."

Jesse blinks.

"Judging from that unnecessarily loud engine, his parents are home."

Jesse rises from the couch, curious, and moves toward the window. He peers out the blinds and says, "Oh my God."

"I warned you." Saul joins him at the window, watching the two men climb out of a Chevy that's seen better days. The faint, tinny sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival blares from the truck's speakers. "Time to meet the neighbors?"

Jesse's first instinct is panic; suspicion and paranoia have served him pretty well since he escaped from Jack's gang. "I—I don't know, maybe we should—"

But Saul's already guiding him to the front door. "Don't worry, they're not the 'squeal like a pig' type of country folk."

Jesse fumbles through his jean pockets for his new ID. There's no way he's giving total strangers his real name. That kind of carelessness would come back to bite him in the ass later. He memorizes the information by the time they're out the door. Jesse lags behind Saul's pace, walking alongside Bark Lee who's trotting down the sidewalk and wagging his tail.

The rednecks live next door in a veritable eyesore of a house with a lawn that's almost as run-down as their truck. Jesse has no idea how he hadn't noticed this place when he first showed up here. Saul's house has a nice little picket fence around it; this one has a wire fence encompassing the backyard, probably for the dog's benefit. The house could use a new coat of paint—or three; it doesn't look like it's seen an update or renovation since the seventies. It's all giving Jesse the skeeves—Texas Chainsaw Massacre-shaped skeeves.

One of the rednecks hauls a duffel bag out of the truck bed. He's rounder than the other guy, wearing a worn, faded jean jacket with an eagle emblem on the back. There's a red bandana tied around his head, and a long, ZZ Top-esque beard sprouting from his chin. "You tryin' to stick me with your kid?" Saul cajoles him as they reach the truck.

Bark Lee yaps in recognition and scampers toward the man, who drops his bag to kneel and ruffle the dog's ears. "He didn't give ya too much trouble, did he?"

"Nah, he's a dream." Saul claps a hand on Jesse's shoulder. "This one, I'm not so sure."

The man stands up and offers his hand. "You a friend of Saul's?"

Jesse accepts the handshake. The guy's got a pretty strong grip. "Yeah, I'm, uh, I'm Aaron."

"Buck. Nice to meet ya, Aaron. You from outta town?"

Jesse nods. "Yeah... Alaska."

"Alaska, huh?" the other man says, approaching them. He's tall and lanky, with conservative, salt-and-pepper facial hair. "What brings you all the way here?"

"He's staying with me for a while 'til he gets his proverbial shit together," Saul explains.

"Well, a friend of Saul's is a friend of ours!" The other man shakes Jesse's hand. "Name's Billy Ray. Come on inside," he says, motioning to the house. "We got plenty of beer, if you're thirsty."

This is like the beginning of every backwoods horror movie ever made. Jesse would be so much more wary about this if Saul hadn't vouched for these guys. So Jesse nods and says, "Sure, I guess."

The inside of the house is even more seventies than the exterior. Plaid seems to be the pattern of choice for the couch cushions, and the furniture and floors are old wood. The scent of stale tobacco hangs in the air and sticks in Jesse's throat. He hasn't had a cigarette in about six months, and he wants to gag. Mounted on the walls are a couple deer heads with various accessories hanging from their antlers. Kind of degrading, Jesse thinks. You live your life as a majestic deer out in the forest, minding your own business, then someone shoots you and uses your head as a coat rack.

The refrigerator door opens with a sucking pop. Billy Ray reaches inside and grabs a couple beer bottles, hands one to Jesse.

"So how was the trip?" Saul asks, crossing the dining room floor and pulling up a chair alongside Jesse.

"We won some, we lost some. We won some more." Billy Ray withdraws a lump of cash from his jeans' pocket.

Saul chuckles. "Some people have all the luck, huh?"

Jesse remembers when he had fat stacks to throw around, though his were acquired through less legitimate means. He twists open his bottle and takes a long swig, hoping to drown out the memory. "Ain't that the truth."

Buck and Billy Ray focus their attention on Jesse. Even Bark Lee's staring at him. Jesse shrinks a little in his seat. "So, Aaron," Buck says, "what'd you do in Alaska?"

Jesse takes another sip, buying time. "Wood-working."

"Work with your hands, huh?"

Jesse half-smiles, but there's no joy. "Yeah."

"You know anything about cars?" Billy Ray asks.

"They go 'vroom'?"

Buck and Billy Ray get a kick out of that one. Saul smiles to himself. "Well, that's a shame," Billy Ray says, "'cause I got a buddy who could use a hand in his shop fixin' cars."

Jesse's brow furrows. Did he just fail some sort of test? "I could learn. Maybe. It's not that hard, right?" If he can cook ace-level meth, he can repair cars.

Billy Ray and Buck look at each other. Jesse wonders what kind of silent conversation they're having through their facial expressions. "It's up to Duane," Billy Ray says, "but I don't see the harm in bringin' you by sometime. But there's one condition."

"Yeah?"

"You gotta come fishin' with us tomorrow mornin'."

Jesse looks over at Saul. "Are they for real?"

Saul huffs a laugh. "It's sort of a rite of passage for them. If you wanna get their seal of approval, you gotta catch a fish."

This feels like an elaborate joke, like he's on a redneck version of Candid Camera, but, hey, when in Rome. "Sure, whatever," Jesse says, shrugging his shoulders. A job would be a great distraction, something Jesse desperately needs. He can't just lounge on the couch with Saul all day watching movies. Saul has to go to work at some point, and what then? Jesse doesn't want to be alone in that house with nothing but his thoughts.

"You seem like a real team player," Buck says. "How'd you ever get hooked up with Saul? You a student of his?"

Jesse's heart does a panicked flail in his chest, because what the fuck are they talking about? But Saul picks up the conversational baton like it's not even a thing: "Yeah, he was a great kid. Real history buff."

Jesse takes another swig off of the bottle to disguise the way his hands are shaking.

"I bet Alaska's a hell of a change from Phoenix, huh?" Billy Ray asks Jesse. It takes Jesse a moment to realize Saul must have told them he came from Phoenix. Would have been nice for Saul to brief Jesse on his little fabrications beforehand instead of dropping him headfirst into it.

"Yeah, totally..."

"What the hell was that?" Jesse snaps at Saul as they're walking back to Saul's place. "Could you have picked a worse cover story?"

"Actually, yeah. The truth would've been pretty bad, don't you think?"

Jesse makes an angry grunting noise. "A teacher? Really?"

Saul can't help but feel a little offended. "What, you don't think I could be a teacher? It's not exactly rocket science, lemme tell ya."

Jesse's mouth twitches into some sort of scowl. "And that's what you went with," he grumbles, like he's not even listening. "That was your story before I ever showed up, huh? Wow. From Phoenix too?"

"That was my mistake," Saul groans. "I screwed up once and said I used to live in a desert. So, yeah, not a lot of choices on that front. I don't imagine you could do much better at creating a fake life with few holes?" He holds the door for Jesse when they reach his house, because, yeah, he's a gentleman sometimes. Jesse storms inside, oblivious to his chivalry. "Hey, c'mon, kid, what's the big deal?"

Jesse whirls to face him. "You had to pick the one thing I just—" He stops himself, rubs a hand over his mouth as if he's said too much already. "It hasn't even been..." A choking sob cuts off Jesse's words, and, wow, Saul feels fucking horrible. Because Walt was always Jesse's teacher, wasn't he? Memories are all Jesse has now, and Saul's muddied the pool. Or maybe Jesse doesn't want to remember, and Saul's cover story is salt in the wound.

"I'm sorry," Saul says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He finds more words floating around the periphery of his brain, but he's not sure if they'll be helpful. That doesn't stop him from saying them: "Hey, at least I said you were a good student, y'know?"

Jesse's angry face falls into something devastated. Saul wants to reach out and hold him together before he crumbles. "Aw, jeez, kid, I'm sorry," Saul says, moving closer. "I didn't mean to—You know I'm not the best at this whole sensitivity thing."

Jesse wipes his eyes with his hand. "It's not your fault. You didn't know." His voice quakes like he's holding back a wave of emotion.

"Maybe I shouldn't go with the first idea that pops in my head, huh?"

That gets a smile, albeit a weak one, but Saul can work with that.

Saul's just started to doze off when Jesse starts screaming and sobbing in the other bedroom. To Jesse's credit, it sounds like he's trying to muffle the noise with the pillows. Saul can still hear him though, so Jesse's not doing too great a job at being quiet. It's times like these he wishes Bark Lee was here so the mutt could go in and comfort Jesse instead. But it looks like the baton's passed to Saul.

He drags himself out of bed and down the dark hallway, stumbles into the guest bedroom and only stubs his toe once. Jesse's curled up in the bed like a sobbing, anguished shrimp. Saul sighs, lingering in the doorway. "You okay?"

Jesse stops shaking for a moment, perhaps chagrined that he has an audience for his private show of pain. "It was just a dream," he mumbles. His legs fight against the tangled snarl of the blankets. "I'm fine."

"You sounded like you were being murdered."

Jesse doesn't say anything.

Saul takes a couple steps into the bedroom. He doesn't know how much comfort he can offer before stepping over some invisible boundary. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Jesse goes still, as if the subject is utterly forbidden.

Saul's guessing that's a no. He moves closer to the bed, standing near the empty space beside Jesse. "Can you get back to sleep?"

"I'm fine," Jesse insists, but he shifts in a way that leaves Saul a little more room on the other side of the bed, a silent invitation to join him here.

Saul stares at the empty half of the bed, then his gaze jumps to Jesse's tortured form. He sighs out a deep breath and carefully lies down next to Jesse. Jesse doesn't seem to mind, seeing as he's not making disgusted, aggrieved noises or trying to climb out of bed. So that's good. Saul gets the urge to say something. He doesn't know how to handle things like this, but maybe his presence is enough for Jesse. A simple assurance that nothing bad is going to happen, that no one is going to hurt him.

The tense line of Jesse's body relaxes a little, sinks into the sheets. The rhythm of his breathing evens out into something calmer. So when Jesse tips back and leans his weight against Saul, Saul thinks he's done something right.

Jesse wakes up ungodly early for the fishing trip the next morning. He's a little embarrassed about the fact that Saul's sound asleep next to him in the bed, but it's not like Jesse invited him in. It's been over half a year since he felt the warmth of someone beside him while he slept; he missed it. He doesn't care that it's Saul Goodman, of all people. It's real, and it's something, and that's more than he's had in a long time.

The drive to the marina takes a bit longer than Jesse thought it would, but the soundtrack of guitar-driven rock helps pass the time. Jesse sorts through the tapes in the box in the back seat, curious if there's anything he recognizes. He finds a lot of classic rock—Led Zeppelin, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Ted Nugent, Rush, Bob Seger—but the closest thing to country music is Kenny Rogers. Interesting.

Buck and Billy Ray take the boat onto a tranquil lake when they reach the marina. The sun's rising languidly in the sky, casting a marvelous sheen onto the water.

"So, uh, you guys know you can just buy fish, right?" Jesse asks. He figures if they're lottery winners they can afford to skip the manual labor.

"But where's the fun in that?" Jesse winces as Buck hooks a worm through the collar. "Don't tell me you're squeamish."

Worms wriggle around in the bait can, oblivious to their impending fate.

"You ever fish before?" Billy Ray asks. He takes Jesse's fishing rod and sets up the lure.

Jesse shakes his head.

"No shit? Daddy never took you out on the lake for a fishing lesson?"

Jesse frowns. "There's a lot of things he never did." A bird flies overhead and chirps. "My parents are more Silver Spoons than Beverly Hillbillies."

"Sorry to hear that, kid," Billy Ray says. "Better late than never, though, right?" He hands Jesse the fishing rod once it's set up. "You know how to cast, don't ya?"

"Yeah, just...throw it out, reel it in. Easy."

Buck chuckles. "It's a little more complicated than that."

Jesse feels a pang, something familiar pushing at the periphery of his memory. Billy Ray misreads Jesse's hesitance and slips the rod out of his hands. "Here, lemme show ya." He points the rod at the vast expanse of lake before them, flicks the line out a good distance away. The lure drops beneath the water, the neon floater bobbing above the surface.

"So how do I know when I got somethin'?"

"You'll feel a tug on the line. When you do, give the rod a quick jerk up to set the hook."

Jesse nods, though he's still confused as all hell, but he thinks this is one of those "learn as you go" situations.

Billy Ray and Buck cast their own lines into the water on opposite sides of Jesse. "Took Saul two hours to get a bite," Billy Ray says. "Think you can do better?"

Jesse makes a distressed face at the lake, willing it to offer up some fish, because if he has to sit here for two hours he's going to go mad. "God, I hope so."

"You're not the outdoors-y type, are ya, Aaron?" Billy Ray asks, an amused lilt to his voice.

It takes Jesse a moment to realize Billy Ray's talking to him. This new identity thing takes some getting used to. "Not really, no."

"So what'd'ya like to do?"

He shrugs, tugs on the line. Nothing. "I used to draw a lot, back in high school." God, he can barely remember the person he used to be before Mr. White seeped into his bones like a poison.

"An artist, huh? Why'd you stop?"

"I got busy."

"Livin' or dyin'?"

Jesse smiles, but there's no joy. "A little of both." He hears the sound of a beer bottle twisting open.

Buck asks, "I don't mean to offend, but what happened to your face?"

Jesse shuts his eyes in pain; he remembers it all, though he wishes he didn't. As soon as he gets some money, he's getting this shit fixed. Plastic surgery exists in Nebraska, right? "I got in a fight," he says, then adds, "You should see the other guy." He's got no qualms about killing Todd—he'd do it again, a thousand times over—but, Christ, he killed someone. Another ghost to haunt his sleep until the day he dies.

Buck asks something that throws Jesse off-guard: "He deserve it?"

Jesse will never forget the way the world dropped out from under him when Todd shot Drew Sharp and Andrea. "Yeah. He did."

Billy Ray looks curious, but they both know to back off the subject. "How come you left Alaska?" he asks instead. "Too cold for ya?"

"Nah, it was just—it was too lonely. I knew some people in town, but the whole place felt really isolated. Back home, you could live in a small town but you still felt like you were part of somethin' bigger, y'know?" He stares at the water and mindlessly reels in the line a couple inches. "But there it was just, like, this is it. After about a month or so I started gettin' real depressed for, like, no reason. Found out that the further you get from the equator, the lack of sunlight or whatever makes you depressed." The Phoenix lie makes this more believable; of course Jesse wouldn't like the glum enviroment of Alaska after living in the desert.

They're watching him, listening like Jesse's dull life story is important somehow. "So what made you come here?"

Jesse shrugs. "Saul was one of the few people who gave a shit." Toward the end of, well, everything, Saul had become increasingly helpful to Jesse, even giving him a gun to protect him from Mr. White. Sure, he also helped Mr. White poison Brock, but if Walter White could manipulate Jesse to his will, it's not too much of a stretch to think he could use Saul too.

"First-name basis, huh?"

"Yeah, well, he ain't my teacher anymore." Then why does Jesse still call Walter Mr. White?

Jesse's about to say something more when he feels a pull on the line. "Yo, I think I got somethin'."

"Already?" Buck moves closer so he can watch Jesse's technique. "Alright, reel in the slack and set the hook. Tip the rod up, almost straight."

Jesse follows the instructions the best he can, and Buck's not yelling at him or calling him an imbecile, so Jesse thinks he's doing okay.

"Keep the line tight. Don't reel 'im in until he's movin' toward you."

Jesse tries to gauge the size of the fish by the way it's pulling the line. It doesn't feel huge, but it's not exactly minnow-sized either. He lets the fish run with the line and occasionally tilts the rod to tire it out. When the fish stops, he pumps the rod a bit to bring it in. It takes about a minute or two to land the fish, but his patience pays off. Billy Ray nets the catfish out of the water, and they're all surprised by the size of the thing.

"Damn! Not bad for a first-timer!" Buck exclaims. "That's, what, an eight-pounder?"

"Just about, yeah."

Jesse smiles, proud of himself. "So, what, do we let it go now or—" He gives a yelp of horror when Billy Ray raps the fish on the head with a wooden club. "Why would you do that? I thought we were gonna throw it back!"

"Most people like to eat their first fish."

Jesse opens his mouth, closes it. He's not sure how to process what just happened. "I don't...I don't really like fish," he says with a shrug. "Is this another rite of passage thing?"

Billy Ray chuckles. "Don't worry, Saul freaked out too."

"I did not freak out," Jesse mumbles, because he so didn't. "I just don't like killing..."

"It's more humane than lettin' the poor critter suffocate outta the water," Buck says. "Plus, it tastes better." Hard to argue with that logic.

Jesse stares at the dead catfish and feels something akin to pity. But maybe this fish deserved it; maybe he was a dick, some sort of fish gangster who terrorized smaller aquatic life. "You guys gonna clobber everything I catch?"

"Depends on how good you are," Billy Ray says, laying the fish on ice. "You catch more than the cooler can hold and we gotta start throwin' some back."

Jesse doesn't think he'll have to worry about that.

When Jesse gets back to Saul's house around noon, the driveway's empty, so Jesse assumes Saul's gone to work already. He takes a quick shower and throws a load of laundry into the washer—as long as he's staying here, he might as well make himself useful. The chores will serve as a distraction, so he fixes himself a small lunch while he tidies up the house.

The place is rather nice, Jesse thinks, for a bachelor pad, done up like a modern, rustic farmhouse. Something about it is familiar somehow, but he can't figure out why. The walls are a taupe, beige color offset with oak flooring. Windows in the kitchen and living room allow the sunlight to light everything up with its orange glow. The kitchen cabinets are maple wood with granite countertops. Off-white couches and armchairs sit on a conservative-patterned area rug.

It hits Jesse when he's taking the clothes out of the washer. The interior reminds him of the Schraders' house. The memory knocks the breath out of him, and it takes the sound of the front door opening to startle him back to reality.

Jesse panics, wondering who the fuck would be breaking into Saul's house. He's in the middle of grabbing a broom for a weapon when he realizes if it was an intruder, he wouldn't have heard them. Most burglars tend to be sneaky and try not to announce their arrival.

Jesse risks a glance out into the living room. He breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees Saul tossing his keys on the kitchen counter. Jesse grumbles, "Jesus, scare the shit outta me," and starts the dryer.

"I thought you were at work," Jesse says once he's in the kitchen again.

"No way. I just had a couple errands to run." He leans on the countertop, and Jesse stares at Saul's forearms for a second too long. "So, how was your trip? Catch anything?"

Jesse wets his lips. "Actually, yeah. They wanna invite us over for a cook-out tonight."

"That many, huh? When'd you get your first bite?"

"Like, ten minutes in." He smiles when Saul stares at him in disbelief. "I guess I'm just a natural or somethin'."

"Or somethin' is right. Y'know, they've got a lot of fishing competitions around here. You might wanna think about entering one."

Jesse shakes his head. "I'm not big on the outdoors."

Saul surveys the living room. "Yeah, you're more of the housewife type, huh?"

"What?"

"Did you move my stuff? The place looks suspiciously cleaner."

"Yeah, I might've...cleaned." Jesse rubs the back of his neck, glancing away from the heat of Saul's gaze. "Just a bit. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I could use a maid." Jesse glares at him, and Saul chuckles, patting his shoulder. "That was a joke, kid. Lighten up." Jesse's line of sight flicks to the way Saul's touching him. Saul lifts his hand away, perhaps fearing he's crossed some sort of boundary. "So, what's for dinner?"

"I hope you like catfish."

Saul and Jesse head next door as the sun begins to sink in the sky. Billy Ray's already got the table set with buttered corn, baked beans, and dinner rolls. Buck's outside in the backyard frying the fish. Bark Lee gives a friendly yap when they walk into the kitchen; Jesse scratches the pup behind the ears.

"Aaron, you're in for a treat," Billy Ray says. "Buck fries up the best catfish in the county."

"It's true," Saul adds. "He won the ribbon."

Jesse breathes out a laugh. "Is there nothin' to do in this town 'cept for fishin' and winning food ribbons?" At least Albuquerque had a couple of cool museums.

"Oh, there's plenty. Saul, why don't we show 'im around sometime?" Billy Ray nudges Saul with his elbow.

"C'mon, he just got here. Give the kid a break," Saul says, waving a hand dismissively as he pulls up a chair.

"If we don't do it, Duane will."

"Am I ever gonna meet this Duane, or you just gonna talk about him like he's some local urban legend?" Jesse asks.

Billy Ray laughs. "Aw, he'd love that. Nah, we'll take you to his shop tomorrow. He'll probably give ya some sort of test first, but it ain't hard."

Jesse shoots Saul a worried look. "Test?"

"It's more of an exercise, I guess, 'cause there's no right answer. He just wants to see if you're teachable."

Jesse feels a roil of worry in his gut before common sense kicks in. If Billy Ray and Buck thought Jesse wouldn't pass the test, they wouldn't have bothered bringing up the job. So, clearly, Jesse's not destined for awful, embarrassing failure.

"Somebody gimme a hand out here?" Buck calls from outside.

Billy Ray moves to help, but Jesse shakes his head, rising from his chair. "I got it."

This one act of compassion, though Jesse doesn't know it at the time, changes his life irrevocably.

He steps out into the backyard where Buck's tending to a small fryer, wearing a ridiculous apron and wielding a set of tongs. A few steps away, there's a picnic table covered in stray newspaper pages. "Aaron! Just the man I wanted to see!"

"Oh yeah?"

The catfish filets sizzle in the fryer, filling the air with the smoky smell of seasoned fish. They've got some sort of crunchy-looking breading around them. "Can you put these on those newpapers over there while I bread up the rest?" Buck hands Jesse the tongs.

"Sure." Jesse snags a couple filets and sets them on the newspaper. The paper absorbs the grease like a sponge. It's in the middle of this simple task that Jesse spots a headline that makes him pause, and he can't hold back the gasp:

"BLUE SKY" METH STILL ON STREETS

Blood hums in Jesse's ears. His pulse skyrockets. With a shaky hand, he nudges a filet aside with the tongs to read the name of the paper: Omaha World-Herald.

It's not a front-page story. Rather, it's tucked away in one of the inner pages that boasts zero pictures, save for black-and-white advertisements for real estate and overpriced jewelry. This is local, Jesse realizes with a start.

Heisenberg is dead. So how did their meth end up in Omaha, Nebraska?

Jesse turns away from the papers to grab a couple more pieces of fish. Who cares, right? As far as Jesse's concerned, that part of his life is over. This doesn't concern him.

Or does it? Could the meth he cooked while enslaved still be making its rounds? Could that ever be traced back to him? Jesse doesn't see how. The cops probably don't even suspect Heisenberg of having a partner. They got their man. Case closed.

Jesse's new life is just beginning. He's making friends, and he's in line to get a job tomorrow. What's the point of tugging at the tethers of his old life?

Best to stay away from this.

That doesn't stop Jesse from reading more as he drops the next batch of fish onto the paper:

A source inside the Omaha PD claims that the department is investigating the recent influx of a notoriously potent and unusually pure brand of methamphetamine. Known on the streets as "Blue Sky" for its distinctive light blue coloration of crystals, the drug first appeared in Albuquerque, New Mexico before gaining traction across the country, as well as the Czech Republic. After the death of its manufacturer—Walter White, a.k.a. "Heisenberg"—Omaha PD has encountered an upsurge of Blue Sky on the market. While the Omaha PD would not comment directly, they insist they are "actively seeking out many leads."

Jesse shudders though he's not cold. His brain swirls dizzily from all the new connections and theories bubbling inside. Why is Blue Sky on the streets of Omaha? Could this be the thread that connects his new life to his old?

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump high enough to dunk a basketball. "You okay?" Buck asks with concern.

Jesse nods. His mouth's gone dry. "Y—yeah, I'm fine." He turns away, feeling Buck's eyes on him.

"You sure? You look kinda pale."

Jesse fights to keep the shake out of his voice. "I'm just hungry, I guess." He picks up three more filets and sets them on the paper, right on top of the article that turned his world upside down.

"Well, go inside and fix yourself a plate. I got this."

Jesse doesn't have much of an appetite anymore.

"You alright, kid?" Saul asks that night after dinner. "You've been pretty quiet, and I don't remember you being so pale. You tryin' for that broody vampire look?"

Jesse scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm fine, I just...feel kinda sick, I guess. This heartburn's killin' me."

A look of concern flashes over Saul's face. "You need an antacid? Here, I got tons of 'em." He digs around in one of the kitchen cabinets and tosses Jesse a roll of Tums.

Jesse fumbles with the catch. "Thanks..."

"Hey, good job on dinner tonight, by the way."

Jesse's brow furrows. "I didn't cook it."

"But you caught it, and that's pretty impressive." Saul gives him a quick little smile, and Jesse feels an unfamiliar twist in his heart. "Get some sleep," Saul says, brushing past Jesse as he heads for the staircase. "You got a big day tommorrow."

"Yeah," Jesse murmurs, and he doesn't know why his skin feels like it's crawling with an electric current.

When he finally gets into bed, he lies awake, waiting for the nightmares to drag him under. Jesse has no delusions of being able to sleep well after the bombshell dropped on him today. He tries to connect the dots in his head to see if he should be worried or not. Jesse had been the only one manufacturing Blue Sky for those six long months. But Mr. White dispatched of Jesse's captors. That means the most recent batch of meth was seized by police and never distributed. So wouldn't the previous batch already be sold? How could it be circulating all over the country, especially here of all places?

Horror rips through him at the realization: someone is cooking Blue Sky right here in Omaha.