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Jesse’s holding his breath like he’s never held his breath before. Please, God, he pleads, and he’s not sure if he’s actually praying to some God out there or if he’s just using the expression. Please don’t let them find me.
Mr. White sees him. Jesse knows he does, because they lock eyes for a second, and holding his breath is getting his harder because his heart is pounding and he thinks he might die, anyway, right there, without any help from Todd and his uncle. Todd’s uncle wants to shake Mr. White’s hand and Mr. White can barely move, he’s all stiff because of what just happened to Schrader—another death for Jesse to add to the list, plus Schrader’s partner. Jesse thinks briefly of Schrader’s wife, the one with all the purple, and how she’d given him that cup of coffee.
“Hey man, I gotta know we’re square or I’m gonna have to go that other way,” Jack says to Mr. White, and Jesse can’t understand how he’s simultaneously begging Jack to kill Mr. White and begging Mr. White to just shake the bastard’s hand and stay safe.
Mr. White shakes Jack’s hand and Jesse’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. He doesn’t understand any feelings anymore. Mr. White looks right at him again and Jesse’s sees it in his eyes—Mr. White’s going to rat him out.
“Pinkman.” Mr. White spits Jesse’s last name and it’s like he threw a knife that landed square in Jesse’s chest. “Pinkman. You still owe me.”
“If you can find him, we’ll kill him,” Jack says it so nonchalantly, and Jesse feels the urge to vomit.
“Found him.”
It’s like everything’s underwater, everything’s slow motion—the guys are grabbing his legs and he’s trying to scramble away, trying so hard to army crawl out, desperately fighting against sand and fatigue and sick burly fucks clawing at him. Jesse thinks he might be yelling but he doesn’t know.
He’s on his knees, and there’s a gun pointed at his head, and he thinks Oh, God, this is it, and he looks up at the sky because shit if his last view is going to be some Nazi. He’s not going to cry. He sees a bunch of birds—buzzards?—and he thinks about how they’re going to be snacking on him soon. Jack looks at Mr. White for a last confirmation and Jesse can’t help but look at him, too, and Jesse finds himself pleading with Mr. White silently, not quite keeping up his goal of not crying as his eyes fill with tears and his breath starts to gasp a little.
“God, please, Mr. White…” His voice is quiet, quiet enough that Mr. White can pretend he never heard it, but Jesse knows he did and all he can do is pray now, pray that Mr. White finds some shred of humanity left in him to not kill Jesse.
The silence stretches on forever, agony in every stinging second, and Jesse’s sniffling now, ignoring the way Jack’s lip curls in contempt. Jesse’s eyes are locked with Mr. White’s, and no one else gets a say in the decision.
“Wait.” With that one word, Jesse knows he’s going to live. His breath is coming fast, almost in sobs, and he hasn’t looked away from Mr. White.
“What, you change your mind?” Jack sneers.
“Yes,” Mr. White says simply. He finally drops his gaze from Jesse’s and Jesse closes his eyes, trying to breathe deep.
“You sure? Ain’t he a snitch?” Jack kicks Jesse and Jesse, unsuspecting, yelps in surprise and pain.
“No,” Mr. White says sharply. “He’s not a snitch.”
Jesse looks away, because he is a snitch, and he doesn’t want to give Jack any reason to shoot him the way he’d gone against what Mr. White wanted and shot Schrader. The gun’s still pointed at his head and Jack doesn’t seem convinced that should change that.
“You got my money,” Mr. White says hollowly. “Isn’t that enough?”
“If you’re sure.” Jack shrugs, slowly, so slowly, bringing the gun down. Mr. White’s face says he isn’t quite sure, but he doesn’t say anything. Jesse stays on his knees, and he and Mr. White let the voices of Jack’s crew fade into silence.
Jesse can’t bring himself to thank Mr. White. The silence stretches between them, the kind of silence that can only exist in the desert, just hot air and sand and that scorching sun. Mr. White drops to his knees and then onto his back, like he’d been before Jack’s guys had dragged him to his feet. He’s crying and Jesse doesn’t know what to do, battling between wanting to beat him to death and comfort him.
“How could you?” Mr. White moans, and that fires Jesse up.
“How could I?” He growls between clenched teeth. “Did you just fucking ask how could I?”
“You brought my brother-in-law here to die,” Mr. White accuses, and Jesse feels white-hot rage blinding him, strangling him, cutting his throat.
“That’s your fault, you goddam bastard!” Jesse’s screams tear at his throat and once he’s started he can’t stop, everything he’s wanted to say for so long pouring out of him. “You poisoned Brock! You fucking sick bastard! You poisoned a little kid to work me over! You killed Mike, you were going to kill me—that’s what you wanted from the vacuum guy, not a new start; you wanted me to disappear. And then you fucking put a hit on me, you work with Todd, the crazy asshole kid-killer, and you ask me how could I?”
Jesse’s just screaming now, not even really screaming words anymore, and he can feel the veins in his neck standing out, can feel blood rushing to his head. He wants to have an aneurysm. He wants some wild animal to come find him and maul him, eat him. He wants to carve out the emotions from his chest and just feel nothing ever again.
“Jesse!” Mr. White shuts him up, because of course he does. Mr. White always shuts him up. Jesse’s coughing, he’s got snot trailing down his face, he’s shaking. “You’re going to have a heart attack.”
“Good,” Jesse grinds out, his voice all but gone.
They stare at each other for a long time, and they’re both just sobbing now, Mr. White over his brother-in-law and Jesse over everything. It probably looks so gay, part of Jesse, the old part of him, the part that’s still young, thinks. Two dudes sitting in the dessert wailing.
“If you would have just listened—”
Jesse can’t listen to another word and he’s on Mr. White before he even knows what he’s doing. He’s bashing Mr. White’s head into the desert sand, he’s punching him, he thinks he even bites him at one point. And Mr. White’s fighting back, and they’ve fought before but never like this, not even that night when Jesse kicked Mr. White out and told him to never come back.
They’re rolling in the sand, beating the shit out of one another, and Jesse relishes it, hopes they both die. They deserve it.
Then suddenly there’s another hand in the mix, and it’s cold and lifeless and it’s Schrader’s—they rolled onto him, and they’re both recoiling and Jesse throws up, seeing some blood in the mix.
“We have to get out of here,” Mr. White says tonelessly, fresh tears standing out in his eyes.
“We?” Jesse asks, chest heaving. Mr. White starts coughing and Jesse feels that same confused mixture of happiness and terror that Mr. White’s dying.
“Do you want me to leave you here in the desert?” Mr. White snaps, and Jesse realizes Mr. White thinks they’re still a team, despite everything.
“I would rather die in this desert than live anywhere near you,” he says it slowly, purposefully, dropping each word like the dagger he knows it will be. He’d brushed off what Schrader had said about Mr. White having a blind spot for him, but now he relishes its truth because of how it allows him to hurt Mr. White more.
“Fine.”
Mr. White crawls to his car, drags himself into the driver’s seat, and guns the engine away. Jesse is left in the silent desert with buzzards and dead bodies and blood in the sand and blood in his hair and blood on his hands.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, trying not to think or feel, just staring up at the blue, blue sky. The sun starts to dip low and the temperature drops. Jesse goes to Schrader’s SUV and searches for the keys.
He can’t find them, and he knows, logically, where they are. They’re on him. Schrader had them; where else would they be? He can’t do it. He can’t go rifle through Schrader’s pockets like a scavenger. He closes the doors of the SUV, relishes the security of locking them, and wraps his arms around himself for warmth and comfort.
Hours pass. The darkness grows profound, pushes on his eyeballs, and he hears things—animals, maybe, or demons. He gets out of the car three times to flap his arms and chase animals away from the bodies, because he can’t stomach the thought of something eating them.
He thinks it might be almost morning when headlights come toward him. He’s immediately on alert, adrenaline pounding through his whole body. He’s sure it’s Jack and his crew coming back to finish him. He wonders if he can hide and thinks it might work better this time, since it’s dark. He ducks himself as low as possible in the seat and waits for someone to find him. He hears a door slam—just one. He dares to peek his head up enough to see out a window, but it’s too dark to see anything.
“Jesse?”
It’s Mr. White. Mr. Fucking White.
And even though Jesse’s sure he hates Mr. White, sure because he does, because that’s the only possible way he could feel, and even though he’s sure Mr. White feels the same and is there to kill him, Jesse cracks the door open cautiously, blinded by the sudden interior lights.
“Mr. White?” He asks, hating how young and scared he sounds even despite the way his voice rasps from screaming and not talking for so long. There’s silence, and then he hears soft footsteps in the sand. Mr. White appears, just a shadow, really, because it’s so dark behind him and the light’s in front of him.
“We need to get out of here, Jesse.”
He says we again but Jesse’s not as angry anymore. For now. Maybe it’s his exhaustion or maybe it’s his fear from being in the desert all night alone with two dead bodies or maybe it’s the cold that’s seeped into his bones, but he just feels hollowed out.
“Jesse, a search team is going to be here soon.” Mr. White’s voice is a little more urgent now, but he’s talking quietly, soothingly, like Jesse’s an animal he’s trying to placate.
“For them?” Jesse asks. He means for them or for me, and Mr. White knows.
“Yes. I told…” Mr. White stops and Jesse hears him breathing deeply. “My family knows he’s dead and knows he’s here.”
Jesse stays quiet, thinking. “They’re done with you now?”
There’s a moment of nothing, just empty air between them, and Jesse’s clenching his teeth so they don’t chatter, before Mr. White finally whispers, “Yes.”
And for Jesse, that’s it. It’s not enough, not really, because nothing will make up for Mike, for Brock, but Jesse knows, for Mr. White, losing his family is the ultimate punishment, and somehow that’s enough for Jesse to slide out of the car. Mr. White helps him wipe away his fingerprints from the car, and they’re silent the whole time, just ghosts covering their tracks. There’s nothing to be done about the tire tracks, but Mr. White shrugs and says they already knew he was here before, so it doesn’t matter, and Jesse doesn’t point out there are three pairs of tire tracks besides the ones leading to Schrader’s SUV. It’s not like it matters anyway. He gets in Mr. White’s car and buckles up automatically, and his stomach clenches because it’s automatic from his days with Mike and now Mike’s gone and Jesse’s reminded that Mr. White killed him. He tips his head back to rest against the seat and closes his eyes.
Maybe Mr. White’s going to draw a blade across his exposed Adam’s apple. He doesn’t even care anymore. It would probably be better that way. Instead, he hears the click of Mr. White buckling up, the rumble of the engine starting, and they drive away.
It takes three days for them to get to New Hampshire. Jesse had wanted to go to Alaska, once upon a time, so he figures New Hampshire will be kind of the same, and Mr. White tells him there will be snow. They spend a lot of time not talking and not looking at one another.
They climb out of the truck, stiff and cramped, and Mr. White has to lean on Jesse for a second. He’s getting worse, Jesse can tell. It’s freezing in New Hampshire and Jesse thinks to himself that Alaska would not have been a good choice. He hates New Hampshire, but maybe it’s because of what’s brought him here.
Or who he’s there with.
The cabin Saul’s guy takes them to is tiny, with one bed with a filthy, dusty quilt on top. Jesse glances around in dismay, surprised he cares at all. Most of the time he feels numb, like he doesn’t care about anything, but he’s bitter now. He tells himself he deserves it.
When the sun goes down, which seems to happen fast, they light a lantern and sit in silence. Jesse is shivering even though he’s bundled into three sweatshirts and a heavy coat. He doesn’t know if he’s shivering from the cold or from his past.
“I’ll sleep on the chair.” Mr. White breaks the silence and Jesse jumps because he was so unprepared to hear any sounds. It takes a second for the words to make sense and then Jesse wrinkles his brow.
“Uh, yeah, like I’m gonna let the dude with cancer sleep on a chair all night,” Jesse says disdainfully. After he says it, he remembers in a flash when they were stuck with Tuco and Tio and the way he’d suggested Mr. White give himself up. He sees it in Mr. White’s eyes that he’s remembering it, too, but neither of them mention it. The past is too raw to speak about.
“Logically, since I already have cancer, it won’t matter if I sleep on a chair.”
“Yo, you ain’t sleeping on the chair.” Jesse’s voice is tired and his bones are tired and he thinks his soul is tired. To emphasize his point he walks to the chair and plops down, raising a cloud of dust that makes him sneeze.
He hates it here.
He doesn’t sleep much. His toes are freezing. He’s always had cold hands and feet. He remembers being a kid, like pretty little, in kindergarten or something, and in the winter his mom would grab his feet with her hands and say, “Jesse’s got popsicle toes!” and he’d giggle and giggle and she’d warm his toes between her hands. He holds onto his feet for a second but he stops because it’s depressing and his hands aren’t much warmer than his feet. There’s only one extra blanket besides the raggedy quilt on the bed, and he’d refused it when Mr. White had offered it. Part of it’s pride, maybe, but mostly Jesse is worried about Mr. White. His cough is bad, and Jesse doesn’t think being cold is good for him.
Most of him hates Mr. White, but he doesn’t want to wake up to a dead body ever again.
He tucks his toes under him, under his thick sweatpants and heavy coat. The fire is keeping most of him warm, but the two pairs of socks he’s wearing aren’t doing their job. He’ll have to ask for more when the vacuum guy comes back. Whenever the hell that will be.
The fire lets off a tiny amount of light, a rectangle framing the door of the wood stove they’re using, but it’s not really enough to see by, so Jesse doesn’t realize Mr. White’s awake until he hears a quiet sob from the bed. He freezes, wondering if Mr. White knows he can hear him crying.
Jesse’s never been good with other people crying. In high school he’d dated a girl he didn’t even like for almost an entire year because whenever he tried to break up with her she’d cried and he’d felt too bad to actually do it. He wonders if he should say anything. He can’t think of anything to say. So he stays awake, keeping his eyes closed so Mr. White doesn’t see moonlight reflecting in them, and listens to the older man cry all night long.
Jesse feels tears in his own eyes, and he’s not sure if they’re for Mr. White, for the family Mr. White tore apart, for himself, or for everyone who was dead. Maybe they’re for all of the above.
They get through the night. And then another. Then a few more. It’s almost impossible to keep track of time, since they have no calendar, no phones, no contact with the outside world. Jesse watches Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium about ten thousand times because he needs noise. He memorizes every line and some days the only words he says are quotes from the movie. Mr. White ticks off the days on a little piece of paper, though Jesse’s not sure why. Who cares? They’re going to die out here.
It takes weeks before they carefully start talking. They don’t talk about anything; they make small talk, like strangers on a plane. There isn’t much to talk about because the weather never changes and they don’t have enough selection in food or entertainment to argue over anything.
Jesse’s sure Mr. White’s never been so polite to him, not even when he was in high school and Mr. White was his teacher. It’s uncomfortable, this awkward politeness, because they’ve saved one another’s lives and each has proven he was willing to die for the other, but now they say empty words like, “Were you warm enough last night?”, “I don’t think it snowed at all today.”, and the ever-repeated, “I guess we can turn on the movie again.”
Jesse hates Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. So much.
Jesse doesn’t like the snow, but he’s becoming quite the outdoorsman. He likes chopping wood, if only because it warms him up. He does appreciate the calm stillness that comes from the snow blanketing everything in quiet. He learns the difference between deer shit and moose shit and wonders if he’ll see a bear. He knows there’s a river somewhere nearby, or a creek or something, and he likes listening to the gurgle of the water. He starts whittling to have something to do with his hands, because he hasn’t smoked since they’ve come out here—cigarettes or otherwise—and he still gets antsy from time to time. He gets pretty good at it, if he does say so himself, and he whittles little animals out of blocks of wood he’s chopped. He doesn’t show them to Mr. White.
The vacuum guy finally comes back. He’s brought food and newspapers and magazines and books and socks and blankets and a space heater and medicine and a cot, but not a single new movie, and Jesse wants to strangle him. He thinks Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium on an endless loop should be used as a torture tactic. He would rather keep sleeping on the shitty chair and get a new movie. He’s pretty sure the vacuum guy did it on purpose and thinks it’s funny, and Jesse shares a look with Mr. White, a silent commiseration and an are you kidding me with this guy passing between them.
It hurts a little, because it’s a reminder of the old days, when they were united.
Mr. White opens a bag and pulls out an IV, and the liquid inside is a weird color that makes Jesse’s stomach hurt for some reason, and he realizes that Mr. White’s really, really sick.
“It’s chemotherapy,” Mr. White says quietly. They only speak in hushed voices now, even though it’s just the two of them, because everything’s so quiet that talking regularly seems garishly loud. Jesse nods and doesn’t say anything, because he’s remembering now, the same kind of bag pumping poison into his aunt—poison to fix me, she’d reassured him, but still poison. Jesse helps Mr. White get set up, still without saying a word.
He hates cancer more than he hates Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium.
With each passing week, Jesse and Mr. White slip into more comfort with one another. Jesse thinks he’ll never be able to forgive Mr. White all the way, not for Brock or Mike, but his white-hot hatred has dulled to a spark he can bury most of the time. Mr. White’s not getting better, Jesse can tell, and the thought fills him with a terror and dread larger than he can explain. Mr. White’s all Jesse has left. He can’t go back to Albuquerque. He can never see Andrea and Brock again. He’ll never see his family again, and he’s surprised that he’s actually sad about that. He’s dreamt of a reconciliation that can never happen.
It’s getting warmer now, but Jesse still keeps the heaters going at night because he knows Mr. White’s still cold. Mr. White’s too skinny, no matter how much Jesse tries to force more canned soup and beans into him.
“When spring comes,” Jesse babbles, almost hysterical with desperation, “I can find berries and roots and shit. That’ll be nice.”
Mr. White nods, but he’s sad, and Jesse knows he’s thinking he won’t be around by then. “That will be nice,” he agrees, and Jesse wants to shake him and scream you can’t leave me out here, not now, not after everything.
Jesse comes back from a walk in the woods one day to find the vacuum guy’s truck out front. Jesse hangs back, not sure how long the guy’s been there, because he knows Mr. White likes to get news of his family and it’s never good news, so Jesse likes to give him some privacy when he finds out things like his wife has to work two jobs and his son got a job to help out and reporters swarm the house and his sister-in-law had a nervous breakdown and tried to steal a Lexus right off the lot.
He waits a few minutes and then goes into the cabin. Mr. White and the vacuum guy stop talking as soon as he walks up, and Jesse feels the hair on his neck stand up. He’s obviously walked in on them talking about him. The chemo’s already all set up and Jesse feels a pinch of annoyance at that, because he can do that; the vacuum guy probably didn’t do it right. He doesn’t say anything to them but he crosses the room to check out Mr. White’s arm, and he frowns when he sees the tape over the IV is squeezing the hair on Mr. White’s arm funny. He adjusts it with a little glare at the vacuum guy. Mr. White has fucking cancer and the guy can’t make sure his arm hairs are laying normal?
“Jesse,” Mr. White says quietly. His voice is getting breathy the way it always does when he’s close to falling asleep.
“Did you take a piss before you started?” Jesse asks, because the slow drip takes kind of a long time and Mr. White always falls asleep halfway through and needs to sleep for a few hours afterward. Jesse always reminds him to go to the bathroom before starting the chemo so he doesn’t wake up about to piss himself. Mr. White waves away the question and Jesse rolls his eyes because that’s a no and if Mr. White pees the bed Jesse’s going to be the one to have to go down to the river and wash the sheets in the cold water, hands freezing and numb, and then Mr. White won’t have sheets for a few days while they dry.
“Jesse,” Mr. White repeats, weakly enough that Jesse holds still for a minute and bends down closer to Mr. White so they can talk. “We were talking about what you’re going to do after I die.”
Jesse straightens immediately, shaking his head. He does not want to talk about this. As far as he’s concerned, that day’s never coming and even if it ever does, he’s not thinking about it until then.
“You can go anywhere you want,” Mr. White continues, ignoring the way Jesse’s hands clench. He knows Jesse doesn’t want to talk about it but he keeps going anyway because he’s Mr. White and he ignores what Jesse wants all the damn time.
“Yo, whatever,” Jesse shuts down. “Did you bring any new movies this time?” He asks the vacuum guy, whose eyes pass between Jesse and Mr. White once or twice before he shakes his head. Jesse lets out a frustrated breath even though the dude’s never brought a new movie and Jesse quit even asking months ago. They don’t even watch the movie anymore because once in the middle of a screaming rage fit Jesse snapped the DVD in half.
They didn’t open the other copy.
“We need to talk about this,” Mr. White says, and Jesse can feel his anger bubbling. He’s started getting okay at controlling it—being outside in nature soothes him a lot—but this is crushing all his attempts to stay calm.
“I can’t,” Jesse tells him flatly. He turns and leaves, retreating to the trees to rub his palms on the rough bark and breathe cold, clean air and listen to the woods coming alive as animals came out of hibernation. He’s close enough that he can hear the rumble of the vacuum guy’s truck leave, and he feels too guilty to stay out there any longer. Mr. White hates the chemo and Jesse doesn’t like to leave him alone for long in case anything happens.
Mr. White’s asleep when Jesse comes in, and he’s glad. He puts another blanket on top of Mr. White and starts quietly putting the food away in the cupboards. His hands are shaking a little and he wishes he could smoke. He craves nicotine less and less as time passes, but when he gets stressed out he longs for the burn in his lungs. The vacuum guy said the cabin was “non-smoking”, like it was some five-star fucking hotel, and ignored Jesse when he insisted he’d only smoke outside.
He goes outside and whittles for a little while, until the sun drops low in the sky and it gets dark. Mr. White should be waking up in a little bit, needing to pee and eat before falling asleep again until morning. Jesse hides his project and heads inside.
It’s a few days later when Jesse wakes in the middle of the night and hears Mr. White groaning in pain. It’s happening more and more lately and it makes Jesse’s whole body tremble because he knows what that means. Jesse gets up and gets the pills and a glass of water.
“Mr. White, take these,” he says soothingly, because sometimes Mr. White wakes up thrashing and Jesse’s afraid he’s going to hurt himself more. Mr. White wakes with a gasp the way he always does when he’s in pain.
“Jesse,” he says hoarsely. Jesse helps him sit up so he can take the pills, but he slumps against the pillows in a half-seated position and grabs Jesse’s wrist weakly.
“Jesse, I’m going to die soon.” His voice is steady and calm and Jesse wants to throw up.
“Mr. White…”
“It’s okay, Jesse. It’ll be better this way.”
Jesse doesn’t say anything, because part of him agrees and part of him doesn’t and all of him wants to scream.
“You’ll have enough money to live a good life,” Mr. White goes on. Jesse shakes his head.
“I’m not taking that money,” he says bitterly. Mr. White stares at him.
“You’ve been living on it just fine for the last six months,” he points out.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I got much choice.” Jesse puts the glass of water and the pill bottle on the nightstand so he can fold his arms.
“What choice will you have after I die?”
Jesse starts pacing, feeling caged. “Mr. White, you—we—killed people for that money. Blood money, remember?”
“Jesse, wouldn’t it be better if you could put it to good use? Live a good life. Stay on the right side of the law. Get a new identity and go somewhere better. You’re so young, son. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
Jesse laughs hollowly. “My whole life, huh? Great. My whole life to have nightmares about dissolving bodies in acid and blowing up a bunch of old people and shooting Gale in the face and Drew Sharpe.” He doesn’t mention the nightmare he has most often, the one that he has every night, of waking up next to Jane. Mr. White doesn’t get to hear about Jane.
There’s a silence. “I’m sorry.” Mr. White says it so quietly Jesse almost doesn’t hear it, and he’s not sure he believes he really did.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry I ruined your life.” There are tears in his voice now.
Jesse doesn’t know what to say. Part of him wants to laugh cynically, because what the hell is a dead man’s apology supposed to do for him? It’s sure as shit not going to get him his life back or his girlfriend back—either of them—or Mike back. But mostly he feels tears in his own eyes, feels the pressure in his throat that means he’s going to cry. He knows Mr. White well enough to know that apologies are not given freely or emptily. Jesse’s pretty sure Mr. White has never apologized to him, not for anything.
“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault, all my fault.” Mr. White’s sobbing now, and that scares Jesse most of all. Is he dying right then? Tearful admissions and sobbed apologies are not part of Mr. White’s personality.
But he’s crying, babbling apologies to Jesse and Skyler and Junior and Holly and Hank and Mike and Marie and Gale and to Jane and her father, for some reason, and Jesse doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t feel angry, he just feels sad, and he’s crying too. Jesse’s always been a crier, so it’s not strange, but crying with Mr. White is completely foreign. He’s worried the cancer’s spread to Mr. White’s brain and making him lose his shit. Mr. White’s grasping Jesse’s wrist, clutching at him like a lifeline.
Jesse says the only thing he can think of. “I’ll get your money to your family,” he says it solemnly, choked with tears, and it reminds them both of the promise he’d made so long before—a lifetime before—after being stranded in the desert. It’s a vow. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do it, but he will. He’s never known anything more clearly. He seals his promise by pulling Mr. White to him, hugging him tight against his chest, and he tries not to think about the times their roles were reversed and Jesse was sobbing hopelessly as Mr. White held him.
Mr. White makes it two more months before Jesse wakes up one spring morning alone in the cabin. He scrambles up immediately, jumping into his pants and hopping into his shoes, and runs from the cabin. He finds Mr. White’s coat, discarded on a tree branch, and he thinks he’s going to throw up. He sees Mr. White’s glasses sitting on the stump Jesse uses as a chair when he’s whittling.
He finds Mr. White’s body a little ways into the woods, and then he does throw up. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s sobbing, and after a minute he hears himself and realizes he’s been babbling. “How could you why would you leave me you weren’t supposed to you came back for me in the desert.” His racket scares the birds and they stop chirping while a squirrel chatters at him angrily. He cries himself out and eventually sits up. His hands are freezing. He doesn’t know what to do.
He stares at Mr. White’s lifeless body, the hair that had finally grown back, the beard, the track marks on his arms from all the needles he’d had to endure. People talk about death leaving a person peaceful, but Mr. White’s face is just blank, no peace but at least no pain. Jesse goes back to the cabin and gets the shovel. He comes back and works methodically, robotically. He puts Mr. White’s glasses back on his face. He lays Mr. White’s frail body in the grave gently. He straightens Mr. White’s glasses, brushes some dirt off the front of his shirt. He stares for a moment longer. He goes back to the cabin again and finds his whittling projects. He dumps them all into the hole. He doesn’t want Mr. White to be alone in there, so he sends him off with a dog, a moose, a wolf, a bunch of birds. He covers the whole thing with dirt again and places the last little wooden statue on top. It’s a crudely carved wooden man, and Jesse had been planning to give it more detail.
He doesn’t look back as he goes back to the cabin.
The vacuum guy comes back three days later, and Jesse’s had time to clean everything up and pack everything away. He rolls what he wants to take with him into a blanket and ties the ends together, like he used to do when he was a kid pretending to be a hobo, running away to hop trains. In his bundle he has a few things he’s whittled in the past few days—a dinosaur, a heart, a car. He’s going to leave them for Brock and Andrea, along with some money, in the mailbox so she knows it’s him. He hands the guy a stack of hundred-dollar bundles and makes his request.
“Stop in Albuquerque first so I can drop off some things.” He jerks his chin toward the barrel of money he’s going to have to somehow get to Mr. White’s family. “Then get me to New Zealand.”