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〈1994〉
Black Friday had long passed, and by mid-December, retailers across Albuquerque were competing fiercely with holiday sales. Every shopping center was decked out in colorful lights, strings of polystyrene snowflakes, towering fir trees, and gift boxes wrapped in shiny foil. Sale prices printed in bold white on red backgrounds screamed for attention. Back then, “Cyber Monday” wasn’t a thing yet, and brick-and-mortar stores still ruled the retail landscape, blissfully unaware of the looming threat of online shopping. With the economy on the rebound, consumers drove out, flocked to stores, and served the capitalist machine with feverish devotion.
Walter White, four years into marriage, was no exception.
At a Toys “R” Us inside a mall a few miles from home, he wandered from shelf to shelf, scrutinizing the rows of children’s toys. He was still new to this sort of thing, unsure what to pick. His arm was loaded with boxes in chaotic colors: a Ninja Turtles playset shaped like a castle, bright modeling clay, a sandbox tractor, a space gun with lights and sound…
Then he spotted a remote-controlled car. Loud yellow, big off-road wheels, scaled down with impressive precision. Intrigued, Walt picked up the box and began reading the fine print on the back. He didn’t notice the shopping cart barreling toward him with a loud rattle.
Crash! The cart slammed into him from the side with a dramatic clatter.
Walt yelped, stumbling as several boxes tumbled from his arms and skidded across the floor. He turned toward the source of the collision—and saw a boy sprawled behind the cart, trying to push himself up with one hand.
Walt instinctively rushed over and helped the child to his feet. “Hey, hey. You okay?”
The boy winced slightly. “Yeah…”
“No injuries? You didn’t hit your head?”
The boy shook his head, and Walt exhaled in relief.
“Listen, you can’t do this. Racing carts around without looking? That’s dangerous. Where are your parents?”
The boy looked up at him, startled. He was a neatly dressed blond kid with a small nose, full cheeks, and pale blue eyes that had a way of tugging at your conscience. “I’m sorry…”
Walt’s anger fizzled. He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and looked away—only to spot the remote-control car box lying on the floor. One side had popped open, the contents spilled out. The antenna looked broken.
Walt picked it up and sighed again.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said, voice uneasy. “You have to buy it now, right? I’ll tell them it was me. Just—please don’t tell my mom I crashed into you! She’ll be mad. My dad too. He’ll yell at me… a lot.”
Walt stared at the boy’s tear-brimmed eyes for a few seconds. He could’ve just put the box back on the shelf and pretended nothing happened. But instead, he raised his eyebrows, waved a hand like it was no big deal. “It’s fine. I’ll buy it. I can fix it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah… it should be simple enough.”
The boy’s shoulders relaxed, color returning to his cheeks. “How much was it?”
Walt glanced at the price tag and nearly fainted. $199. A serious blow to his monthly salary. But he’d already said it. Swallowing his pride—and his scream—he casually covered the sticker with his thumb. “Not that much. Don’t worry about it. Just be careful next time, okay? You’re old enough to know better. How old are you?”
“Eleven,” the boy mumbled.
“Sixth grade?” Walt was surprised. He looked younger. But eleven was old enough to have some sense.
The boy nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Jesse,” he said warily, like he’d been taught not to give his name to strangers.
“Okay, Jesse.” Walt put on his most authoritative voice and serious expression. “Let this be a lesson. Be more careful from now on. You can go.”
Jesse gave a small smile and nodded, but didn’t leave right away. He glanced aside, then pointed at one of the boxes on the floor. “Yo! I have that toy too. You like Ninja Turtles? You watch that stuff?”
Walt stifled a chuckle and kept a straight face. “Not me… I was getting it for my son.” —Though now, he was buying a remote-control car instead.
Jesse made a thoughtful noise, clasping his hands behind his back and grinding his toe into the floor. “How old is he?”
“Two.”
The boy frowned and looked up at Walt. “That’s not for a two-year-old. Don’t you know that? It’s for older kids. Look,” he said, picking up the box. “It says six and up, right there. A two-year-old shouldn’t have it. It’s dangerous. Like… they could choke on the parts or something. I don’t know. And that remote-control car? You can’t give that to him either! It’s risky. He’s your son, right?”
Walt felt irritation rising. He could read age labels just fine, thank you. Kids grow up fast anyway. Junior wasn’t dumb enough to swallow a Ninja Turtle. And why was he getting lectured by this reckless, unfamiliar child? He’d just shown the kid a little kindness. “I see… thanks for the warning,” he said, masking his annoyance.
The boy smiled. “Two years old, huh? I wanna see him. Where is he?” He glanced around.
“He’s not here. He’s at home with his mom. I didn’t want him to see the presents. You know—gotta keep it secret.”
“Is it for his birthday?”
“No, it’s a Christmas present.”
The boy’s expression turned serious. “Your kid must’ve messed up real bad.”
Walt blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You think Santa’s skipping your kid, huh? That’s why you’re buying stuff just in case.”
A silence fell. Walt looked the boy up and down. His face was completely earnest, but surely he couldn’t be serious at that age. Maybe he was teasing. Walt cleared his throat. “Do you… do you believe in that sort of thing?”
“What sort of thing?”
“The existence of Santa Claus.”
“Yeah!” the boy said, fired up. “Everyone at school says he’s fake and makes fun of me. Emilio too. But my mom and dad say he’s real. So he is. You gonna argue? You saying my parents are liars? Huh?”
“I, uh, I’m not exactly in a position to—” Walt tried to deflect.
“You’re buying him a present ’cause you think Santa won’t come. You don’t even believe in your own kid. What kind of dad are you?”
“What?”
“You think you’re Santa or something? You’re not. You’re fake!”
The boy jabbed a finger at him, shouting. Walt’s patience, already worn thin from the day, snapped.
“Let me tell you something, kid,” he said in a low, firm voice. “Santa isn’t real. At your age, you should know that by now.”
He gathered the scattered parts of the remote-control car into the box, tucked it under his arm, and turned on his heel, heading toward the checkout.
He didn’t look back at the boy, who stood frozen in place, fists clenched at his sides.
*
One week later.
In the full-length mirror attached to the master bedroom closet, Walt adjusted the position of his white beard. It was, of course, a fake—secured with a thin elastic band that didn’t sit well behind his ears, especially where it tangled with the arms of his glasses.
He was dressed head to toe in a cheap Santa Claus costume. Or rather, he’d been dressed in it. Marie and Hank, along with a few of Skyler’s mom friends who had young children, were invited to a small pre-Christmas tapas-style party at the White residence. Officially, it was “for Junior,” Marie’s idea. The Whites mostly found it a hassle, but Skyler was soft when it came to her sister’s requests, and Walt was soft when it came to his wife’s.
The role of Santa had come down to the two men—Walt or Hank. Neither wanted the job, so they settled it with a coin toss. Walt lost. A coin toss was sacred. Nothing to be done. Staring into the mirror, Walt sighed.
Two knocks at the door. “Walt?” It was Skyler. “Walt, are you ready? The kids can’t wait.”
“Coming! Just a second…” He fussed with the collar, then hurried to the door.
When he opened it, Skyler gave him a quick once-over, eyes wide, then broke into a mischievous smile. “Wow. Looking good, Mr. Kringle. Though you might want to stuff a pillow or two in that belly.”
“No need. By the time I’ve finished off Marie’s ‘light snacks’, I’ll have that covered.” Walt leaned in and gave his wife a quick kiss on the corner of her perfectly lipsticked mouth. Tonight, she wore a bold red blouse with jeweled accents and looked stunning.
Skyler giggled and wiped the lipstick mark from his lips with her finger. Then she handed him a cloth sack. “Here. Oh, and don’t give any chocolate bars to the Peterson kid—he’s got a nut allergy.”
“Got it, got it.” Walt opened the sack and checked the treats inside. “How long do I have to wear this thing? The elastic’s digging into the back of my ears.”
“Until the kids get bored.”
When Walt entered the living room, he was met with wild cheers. The children swarmed him, clinging to his legs. He picked up Junior, who beamed with excitement. The kids rushed to hand him letters covered in scribbles, eager to give them to Santa.
After handing out the treats, Hank clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy. Nice work. Hate to break it to you, but the job’s not done yet—photo session time.”
“Hank…” Walt rolled his eyes.
“What? The parents requested it. Next year they’ll be asking for autographs, I swear. Come on, take a seat. I’ll mix you a strong drink after.”
“Next year, it’s your turn.”
Hank pretended not to hear, whistling as he went to grab the camera.
Walt sat in the armchair, letting each child take a turn on his lap for a photo. Hank’s camera was a high-end DSLR. Must be nice to have that kind of salary. The final shot was Skyler, laughing and trying to escape, until Marie dragged her over and plopped her sideways onto Walt’s lap. That one made Walt smile for real.
“Skyler!” Marie called from the kitchen. “Junior’s—”
They turned to see Junior trying to open a cabinet. Walt was a little surprised. With his cerebral palsy, Junior still struggled to walk steadily, and yet somehow he’d managed to make it that far across the room.
Skyler let out a startled cry, leapt off Walt’s lap, and rushed to her son.
“No, Junior!” she said, holding the cabinet door shut. “There are dangerous things in here. You can’t open it. We really need to get a stopper on this…”
Junior, not fully grasping the danger, stared at her with a puzzled expression.
Skyler tried again. “Listen, you can’t touch this door, okay?” Then, after a moment’s thought: “If kids touch it, they get burned. It’s very, very hot. You understand?”
“Very hot?” Junior echoed.
“That’s right. Really hot.”
Junior looked at the cabinet with concern, then subtly shifted his body away from it. Skyler relaxed, her shoulders easing.
But Walt found himself wondering—someday, Junior would grow up and realize that touching the cabinet wouldn’t burn him. When would that be? Months from now? Years? And when it happenes, what would he learn? Would he accuse his mother of lying? Or would he understand that she’d been trying to protect him, just for a little while?
The doorbell rang.
Marie peeked out the front window and announced with excitement, “Carolers! Everyone, grab your coats! Outside, outside!”
They all shuffled out together. Walt followed, pulling a five-dollar bill from his wallet. The carolers were a group organized by a local church—about twenty people, a mix of adults, teens, and children. They greeted the crowd cheerfully and launched into Joy to the World followed by God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. The sun had long since set, and Walt rubbed his hands together against the cold, waiting for the songs to end.
When they finally did, he slipped his five-dollar tip into the glass jar held by one of the singers. The carolers moved on to the next block, and the party guests—including Skyler, Marie, and Hank—began to file back inside. Walt just stood there, watching until the last person had gone in.
That was when Walt noticed the boy, trudging along the sidewalk.
He squinted and glanced at his watch. The neighborhood was relatively safe, and the streetlights were on, but it was already past the hour when a kid should be walking around alone.
As the boy passed in front of the house, Walt called out. “Hey. Hey, kid—what are you doing out here? It’s late, and it’s dark.”
The boy stopped.
“Where are you coming from? Where are your parents?”
The boy pulled his hands out of his pockets, turned toward Walt, and pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt. Then he stared at Walt’s outfit—head to toe in red and white Santa gear—with wide-eyed curiosity.
That face… Walt recognized it. He couldn’t recall the name, but—
“You’re that…” He pointed a finger, twirling. “You’re the kid from Toys ‘R’ Us, aren’t you?”
The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Under the cold glow of the streetlight, the tip of his nose looked pale.
Walt nodded, then removed the fake beard and hat. He rubbed the elastic marks off his cheeks and stretched his jaw.
The boy’s eyes widened in recognition, and he pointed. “Hey! You’re that fake Santa guy!”
Walt cleared his throat. “That’s correct.”
“You live here?” the boy asked, pointing at Walt’s house.
Walt looked away and nodded a few times. “Yeah. Do you live nearby? You should head home. It’s too late to be out alone. If you need your parents to come get you, you can use our phone.”
The boy shrugged. “I’m not alone. I’m with them.” He tilted his head toward the next block, where the carolers were still singing. “My mom made me come. Said I had to. So I came along, but… I didn’t want to sing, so I’m just trailing behind. I’ll go home when it’s over and say I sang. They won’t know.”
“I see,” Walt said, tilting his head.
“You’re not mad?”
“Whether you sing or not isn’t my concern,” Walt replied. Then, after a pause: “About the other day—I was out of line.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said to you. That wasn’t appropriate. I shouldn’t have said those things. Not to a kid like you. I was tired, and I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” the boy said, staring down at the toe of his sneaker. “I was the idiot, believing in Santa and all. I get it now. You and Emilio were right.” He frowned. “Sorry about the car. That thing was probably expensive.”
“It’s fine.”
“Okay.”
A long, awkward silence settled between them.
“So… are we good?” Walt asked.
“Yeah,” the boy said, meeting his eyes. “We’re good.”
Walt gave a bitter smile. “Okay. Merry Christmas, kid.”
He turned toward the front door, but the boy called out, “Wait!”
Walt turned, letting out a questioning sound.
The boy’s breath rose in a white puff. “I don’t get it. My mom and dad… they lied to me, right? So does that mean they’re liars? How am I supposed to trust them now? Why would they lie to me?”
“That’s…” Walt faltered, glanced around, then spread his hands. “I don’t have an answer for that. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
The boy nodded slowly, deep in thought, then turned his back and started walking away.
“Wait… wait a second,” Walt called after him.
The boy stopped and turned.
“Look, the grown-ups… parents… they do things like that sometimes,” Walt said, unsure even of what he meant to say. He sighed and pushed forward. “They lie. They use tricks. They try to steer you in a certain direction. Sometimes they’re harsh on purpose. And yeah, you’ll probably end up resenting them for it. But they… even knowing that… they still do it. Because they think it’s what’s best for you. That’s what being a parent is. That’s love.”
The boy listened silently.
Walt shrugged. “It’s something you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re a weird guy,” the boy said, and walked off.
Walt watched him go, then put his beard and hat back on and returned to the warm house where his family was waiting.
*
〈2009〉
Jesse Pinkman wakes up on the guest bed at the Schrader house.
He’s exhausted—Hank caught him pouring gasoline around the White residence and brought him in as a “person of interest.” The meth he took earlier is starting to wear off, leaving his whole body aching like he’s got the flu. He groans, stretches, rolls over, and rubs his scruffy, overgrown stubble.
Then he flops back onto his stomach and lies there, lost in thought. He doesn’t want to get up. He wants to sleep again and let the world end while he’s out.
But he knows the world keeps turning. And he knows he can’t die—not really—until he’s made Mr. White pay. Hank said they’re going to gather evidence. That’s the plan.
Which means Jesse has to get up.
He drags himself upright. He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he scans the room, eyes landing on a few photo frames on the side chest. He stands, walks over, and picks one up.
It’s a man dressed as Santa Claus. No doubt about it—it’s Mr. White. Next to him is his wife.
Jesse stares at the photo in silence, then gently sets it back down on the clean chest. Something stirs in his memory, but it slips away like desert sand through his fingers.
He leaves the guest room, drinks the coffee they hand him, and sits in the middle of the couch. When Hank asks, Jesse agrees to record the evidence video.
“Tell us everything you remember,” Hank says, adjusting the tripod under the camera. “Any business dealings, any personal dealings, any criminal activity you were a witness or a party to. Anything and everything. Just tell us your story, okay? Start from the beginning. When did you first meet Walter Hartwell White?”
“I first met Mr. White—” Jesse fights back the emotion rising in his throat and forces himself to speak. His voice is raw, sandpapered from all the screaming yesterday.
Hank and Gomez stay quiet, focused. The little red light on the camera blinks, recording. Jesse grips his knees.
“I met Walter White… in junior year chemistry. He was my teacher.”