Chapter 155: Heart-to-Heart
"That so-called specialist rambled on with a bunch of vague nonsense. He's just using those words to give Skyler false hope—so we'll spend everything we have at his treatment center. But it's a terminal illness. There's no cure."
Walter and Frank weren't drinking light beer—they went straight for the strong stuff: high-proof vodka. After a few glasses, the alcohol hit Walter hard. He began to vent everything he'd kept bottled up—everything he couldn't bring himself to say to Skyler.
"So… does that mean there's still hope? If you go through with the treatment, how much will it cost?" Frank asked.
"Ninety thousand. Ninety thousand dollars!" Walter tilted his head back and downed the vodka in one go. The burn hit instantly—his face scrunched up, eyes and mouth squeezed shut, his nose wrinkled as if he'd been stung. It took him a while to recover.
Walter's family was poor. They had already spent everything they had just trying to find a doctor who could properly diagnose him. Even the $5,000 it took just to book this so-called expert was charged to their maxed-out credit card.
Ninety grand… That number might as well have been from another planet. And since it wasn't covered by insurance, they'd have to pay all of it out-of-pocket.
Frank understood how Walter felt. It was like the time he heard how much it would cost if Lip wanted to attend the University of Chicago—outrageous, unreachable numbers for people like them.
"Ninety thousand dollars… To gamble on something that might not even work? Damn con artists!" Walter cursed.
"What did Skyler say?" Frank asked.
"She wants me to try. Said we could take out a loan. She even wants to go back to work. Said there's always a way. But if we spend all that money and I still die—or worse..."
Walter's voice wavered.
"...Then she'll be left to shoulder that debt alone. And she'd still have to take care of little Walt and our unborn daughter. I can't even imagine what her life would be like..."
Walter's tone was unnaturally calm—too calm for someone facing death.
Anyone else in his situation, if they heard there was even a sliver of hope for a cure, would cling to it like a drowning man to a rope—no matter the cost. Just like Steve from New York, who got swindled countless times in desperation.
But Walter was different.
Even when the doctor told him there was a chance, he was weighing the risks, calculating the worst-case scenario.
That worst case? He goes through treatment, burns through a fortune, and still dies. Leaving behind a mountain of debt that Skyler has to face alone—with a disabled son and a newborn baby, and no job to fall back on.
Skyler had been a stay-at-home mom for years. Just imagining what her life would look like afterward was enough to give Walter nightmares.
That's why… he didn't want to go through with it. And Skyler and Walt Jr. could see it too. That's probably why Walt Jr. ran away from home to talk to Frank—or maybe even to ask for help.
"Money, man… Money really is something, huh?" Frank sighed.
"Yeah… Money's great. You can literally measure a human life with it," Walter said, taking another long drink.
"This is for you." Frank reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick roll of cash, handing it to Walter.
"I… I can't take your money!" Walter stared at the wad—there had to be at least ten grand there.
He thought Frank had taken pity on him and was giving him money for the treatment.
"It's yours. Your cut," Frank said.
"My cut?" Walter blinked, confused.
"You and Pinkman cooked a batch, right? Then all that crazy stuff happened before you could sell it. You two split up. But that batch did get sold—and this is your share. You earned it."
"This much…?" Walter's hand trembled as he realized what Frank meant.
"Frank… are you trying to—" Walter looked at him with suspicion.
"I'm not saying anything. Just giving you what's yours. Don't overthink it." Frank cut him off.
Walter held the roll tightly. His eyes flickered—conflicted, disturbed. Something dark passed through them. He gripped the cash instinctively.
When he finally loosened his fingers, the bills bore the clear imprint of his clenched hand.
"Thanks," Walter muttered.
"No need for that. Call me if you ever need anything. Though, I've been living here a while now... Might be moving on soon," Frank said casually.
"You're leaving?" Walter asked, alarmed.
"Not necessarily. Just something I've been thinking about. I've been away from my kids for too long. But don't worry—if I do go, I'll give you a heads-up."
They talked for a long time before parting ways and heading home.
Later that day, Jesse Pinkman came home and saw Frank.
"You still mean what you said before?" Jesse asked suddenly.
"What, about letting you join if you clean up your act? Yeah. That deal still stands." Frank replied, grabbing two beers from the fridge.
"Mhm." Jesse nodded.
He wanted to turn over a new leaf, live clean, be a good person—but the world wouldn't let him.
He tried finding honest work, but kept getting turned down. No one wanted to hire him.
The jobs he could qualify for either demanded licenses, degrees, or years of experience—none of which he had.
The only work he could get were bottom-of-the-barrel gigs—waiting tables, or worse, wearing a mascot costume and spinning a giant arrow-shaped sign in the scorching sun for hours. Exhausting and humiliating—and the pay barely bought a few burgers.
In Jesse's own words: "Only a sucker would do that kinda job."
Back when he was in the game, a single deal could make more money in two minutes than those jobs paid in a whole day.
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