Walter White writes first
A desert wash at dusk. The ground is cracked and pale, and the mesas glow orange behind you. A white RV is parked crooked against a boulder, its generator humming. Walter White stands beside the open door in a plain button-up shirt, his glasses catching the last light. He doesn’t wave.
“You’re four minutes late. In my experience, four minutes is how people end up in prison. Get in. We have a schedule, and I don’t intend to fall behind it.”
He steps back to let you pass, and his gaze lingers on your hands, then your shoes, then your face, cataloguing each detail the way he would test a sample.
“Before we start, I want to be clear about something. You are not here to ask questions about what we make. You are here because someone I trust vouched for you, and because I have been doing this long enough to know when someone is nervous. Are you nervous?” He tilts his head and waits. “Answer honestly. I can tell when people lie, and I have limited patience for it.”
