"Maggie, can you meet the truck outside? We've got new kegs coming in."

A head of short red curls bobbed from across the bar. "You got it."

From the doorway of his office Wyatt Jackson watched his young bartender hoist herself up over the well-worn wooden bar top and cringed. "The door, Maggie! That poor bar's been through enough."

"Oh relax, Wy," she said, planting her work boots on the floor, "As if I could actually do any damage." She gestured at her petite frame and then trotted for the front door, weaving between the tables with practiced skill and speed.

Wyatt shook his head, then crossed to the bar to inspect for dings or scuffmarks.

In the entryway, Maggie Sawyer grabbed her jean jacket from its hook and slipped it on as she pushed the door open with her hip. She squinted as the morning sun hit her face and fumbled to get her aviator sunglasses from her front jacket pocket. Once the UV-ray blockers were properly in place, she surveyed the scene. As usual, the beer distribution truck was idling on the street, its wide girth blocking traffic. She jogged down the building steps and hopped up to lean into the cab. "Hey there, think you can do me a favor?"

The driver, a young man she could tell had come in from Anchorage (the Starbucks cup in his console was a dead giveaway), nodded. "Yes ma'am, sure ma'am."

"Ok, I need you to keep moving, hang a right at the fish market, then another right at 3rd Street. That'll bring you around to our loading area, and we can let these poor people continue on their way." She smiled brightly as a pick-up stuck behind them let its horn blare.

The driver ducked his head sheepishly. "Yes ma'am, right ma'am."

He moved to take the truck out of park and she reached in to tap his shoulder. "And another thing. Don't call me 'ma'am' – my mother is a 'ma'am'. I'm just 'Maggie', ok?"

Flustered, the young man nodded, stammered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Yes ma'am' and put the truck back into drive. She hopped back onto the bar steps and waved him on. She continued waving, playing traffic cop and exchanging greetings with the other drivers as they went past. "Hey Earl, easy with the horn, ok? You're scaring the city boy. Mornin' Josie! Hey Doug, Anna! Duke, we've got a new keg in – come see us tonight, got it? Need your expert opinion!" She trailed off as the line of familiar SUVs and ATLs was followed by an unusual sight. The bus from Anchorage, still gleaming white under a thin layer of dust.

She squinted, trying to peer within the tinted glass for possible passengers. Had to be somebody on there, the bus didn't make the trip every day. It rolled on past her towards its designated stop, the Inn/Visitor's Center down the road. She put a hand above her eyes, watching intently as the door swung open. Only one person emerged. Male, she could tell, but too far off to pick out details, plus his head was covered by the hood of his sweatshirt. He was dragging a suitcase in one hand and had a duffle bag swung over one shoulder. 'Whoever he is, guess he's staying a while,' she thought.

Then, remembering the beer truck that was surely waiting for her, she turned and headed back into the bar.

Jesse blinked over and over as his still sleep-crusted eyes tried in vain to adjust to the sunlight. He felt eyes on him and twisted around. The bus-driver, his sole companion for the last day and a half was watching him. He raised one hand in a half-hearted wave. "Uh…thanks." The bus-driver nodded and shut the bus door, letting Jesse catch a glimpse of himself before the vehicle pulled away. 'Pinkman, you look like shit…' he thought. He hadn't shaved or cut his hair since his escape. That would be high on a list of things to do. The mountain-man look didn't suit him at all, though it might help him fit in with the denizens of the tiny town. It also helped hide his scars. Instinctively one hand went to his chin, feeling the short lines of raised scar-tissue through his thick beard. He shuddered, just for a moment, then forced his hand away. Keep pushing, keep blocking, keep moving. That was the mantra. That was what had got him this far. Gotten him to Bear Creek, Alaska. Population 554, according to the sign they had passed on the way in. '555 now.' He shifted the duffle bag on his shoulder, joints stiff from the long ride.

He glanced at the building in front of him. 'The Creekside Inn' read the wooden sign hanging above its door, and below that, 'Vacancy.' The white and green paint was peeling, but in a way that was appealing rather than looking dilapidated. He half-wondered if they had done it on purpose, 'antiqued' it or some shit. He took a step forward, then another, reminding himself that was all it took. Just one at a time. Keep moving.

He stepped onto the porch and pulled the door open. He was instantly hit by the unmistakable scent of baked goods. He followed his nose to the front desk and found a basket of muffins, still steaming, seemingly fresh from the oven. He swallowed thickly, frozen in place, hovering over them.

"Go ahead, sug," a female voice said, and he whipped his head up, startled by the woman standing behind the desk, and shocked he hadn't noticed her right away. She was older than he, but he couldn't tell by how much, with teased blonde hair that was straight out of the 80s. Time moved slower up here, apparently. "Take one. I promise they're as good as they smell."

He hesitated, suddenly conscious of how caked in filth his fingernails were, how out of place he must seem. His stomach let out a loud growl and he felt his cheeks burn.

The woman's mouth (painted a bubblegum pink) curled and she plucked a muffin from the basket. Grabbing him by the wrist, she placed in his hand. "Take it, hon. Though you look like you could use something a little more substantial."

With the free invitation, he practically inhaled it, hunger overriding his self-consciousness, only reemerging to stop himself from licking the wrapper, which he instead crumpled and shoved into the pocket of his jeans. A diet of trail-mix and beef jerky had been enough to survive, but he'd forgotten how good real fresh food could be. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and mumbled, "Thanks…"

"Anytime, sug," she said, patting him on the arm. When he flinched, her smile faded. "Road's been rough on you, huh? Can we get you a room for the night?"

He rummaged in his duffle bag and placed a handful of cash on the desk. "More than one night, I think." he said.

The woman picked up the money, eyebrows rising dramatically. "Well…" she said, bouncing the bills in her hand, as if weighing them, and him, as she pursed her lips. "Looks like you'll be staying with us for quite some time." She tucked the cash in a drawer beneath the desk and plucked a key from the wall behind her. "Welcome to Bear Creek, sug. I'm Wendy. Wendy Miller." She extended her hand, "And you are?"

'Oh shit.' What did his new ID say? It'd been weeks since he'd looked at it."J…Josh," he stammered, shaking her hand as firmly as he could muster, "Josh Carpenter."

"Nice to meet'cha," she said, "You're room number 7 – just up the stairs and to the left."

He took the room key, picked up his suitcase. "Thanks…Wendy."

"See ya 'round, hon."

The room was ridiculously easy to find. There looked to only be fifteen rooms in the whole place, and from the looks of the other keys on the pegboard, maybe one or two other occupants. He opened the door to his room, let his luggage fall roughly to the floor, and let himself land on the bed with even less finesse. He hadn't had a mattress beneath him in months, reduced to sleeping on busses, in box cars of freight trains, and god knows what else. He almost let himself drift off again when the thought of his grimy fingernails crept into his mind again and he forced himself up and to the bathroom, shedding layers as he went.

He was naked by the time his feet touched the tile floor and he shut the door behind him, leaning against it, feeling the cold, smooth wood against his back and shutting his eyes. If the distorted reflection on the glass bus door was jarring, the real thing would surely be worse. He took a deep breath, then another. Keep breathing, another mantra. He decided it might be less awful to be clean first.

Averting his eyes from the mirror, he started the shower running. He stuck a hand under the stream and jerked it back, cursing. It took a solid two minutes to warm up, and as soon as it had reached room temperature he stepped into the tub. Even lukewarm it felt amazing. He stood with his head under the showerhead, letting the water pour over him. He then pushed his hair back so it was slicked against his head and swiveled around, searching for the soap. Tucked in a corner was what had to be a homemade bar. He gave it a sniff. The scent was almost undetectable, so used to chemical fragrances as he was. He found himself happy that this was what he had to use. It seemed symbolic almost.

He scrubbed, gently at first, and then more vigorously as he watched the dirt and grime pool at his feet and swirl away down the drain. He surprised himself when he emitted a laugh-like gurgling sound. How could something so simple make him so elated? By the time he was lathering his hair, the repressed gurgle had grown to a full-throated laugh. Wendy downstairs had to really think he was insane, but he didn't care. He took his time, getting every crevice. He washed his hair a second time, then a third, marveling at how with each rinse and repeat it felt less greasy between his fingers. Eventually the water began creeping towards room temperature again, signaling that he probably should give it a rest. Reluctantly, he shut the water off and shoved the curtain open.

The bathroom mirror was well-fogged so he was spared his own image a moment longer. He dried himself, and then took a deep breath before bringing the towel up to the mirror. The face that stared back at him was his, but hollow, with deep dark circles under the eyes. The scars, at least the ones not hidden by beard stood out against his skin, which had grown pale from the months kept out of the sun. He ran a hand through his hair again. Wet, it hung past his shoulders. He tugged at his beard. It had to be at least five inches long now. 'I look like a fuckin' hobo…guess I kinda was…'

He took a step back to get a fuller view. His was thinner than he'd ever been (and he'd always been skinny), and his muscles were less defined than they use to be. He looked half-starved, and he guessed he'd been that too. He frowned at the sad sack in the mirror. That was going to change. It had to. And he knew just how to start.

Unfortunately, a quick survey of the room yielded no scissors (or sharp objects of any kind for that matter). In frustration, he lugged his suitcase up onto the bed and unzipped it, digging around for the least-dirty clothes he had. He chose a black t-shirt and black jeans, which hid dirt best, and donned his hoodie again before grabbing another small handful of cash from the duffle bag. He stowed both suitcase and duffle in the closet, slipped on his sneakers (the soles of which were dangerously thin) and headed back downstairs.

Wendy was gone from the front desk, having left a note that said 'Out to Lunch. At the Last Stop if needed.'

He was on his own to find a barber then. But finding one on this, the only big street in the whole damn town, couldn't be that hard. He pulled his hood up over his wet hair, grabbed another muffin from the basket, and ventured back out again.

"I'm tellin' ya, Mags, he was just about the saddest thing I ever saw come offa that bus," Wendy said, gesturing emphatically with a French-fry. "He looked like a kicked dog, I swear."

Maggie put a hand over the inn-keeper's drink so it wouldn't get knocked asunder. "And he paid for more than a month at Creekside?"

"In cash," Wendy nodded, "And I know Dale says to be wary of that kinda thing, but ya should'a seen him! I couldn't say no to those sad puppy eyes."

The bartender shook her head, "That's your problem, Wend, you're a sucker for any pair of baby blues that waltzes through your…" she trailed off, her eyes going over her friend's shoulder, "…door…"

"Hmm?" Wendy twisted around, "Well I'll be damned…He cleans up even nicer than I thought."

Maggie didn't respond, but kept her eyes on the young man who'd just come through the door. It was the one who'd gotten off the bus, she recognized the hoodie. His shoulders were hunched and he was peering around the room uncertainly.

"Hey, sug!" Wendy called out, waving at him, "Why don'cha join us?"

He flinched slightly, as if he'd been hoping to go unnoticed, but that was a bit impractical with most of the regulars off on a fishing job that day. The bar was practically empty. He seemed to realize this and walked slowly towards them, hands buried in his pockets.

Wendy pulled the barstool next to hers out for him. "Maggie, this is Josh. Josh, this is my good friend Maggie."

He slid onto the stool and gave the young woman a nod. "Hey."

"…Hi," she managed. Wendy might be a bit dramatic, but she didn't lie. The man now seated across from her had just about the saddest, most soulful eyes she'd ever seen. He was no longer quite the mess Maggie had described however. His tawny hair was close cropped to his head, and his beard had received similar treatment. She also couldn't help but notice the scars scattered across his features. As she wondered about their story, she realized she'd been staring and coughed awkwardly into her hand. "I-I'm sorry. What can I get you?"

He turned towards the row of taps along the bar. "Uh…a beer, I guess? What's good?"

Happy to talk shop (something with which she was much more comfortable) she smiled. "We actually just got the Ice Axe Ale in. Used to be brewed exclusively for a nearby town, but they're stretching out! It's a 9% though, so…"

"Let's do it," he said, pulling a $50 bill from his pocket and slapping it down on the bar, "And, uh, what've you got to eat?"

"Ooh!" Wendy bounced in her seat, "This boy needs the Last Stop Last Meal! For sure."

"Last Meal?" he asked, "Not sure I like the sound of that…"

"Oh you'll love it," the blonde woman said, "Trust me."

He shrugged, "Alright, sure."

Maggie grinned, handing him his beer, "One Last Stop Meal coming up!"

The meal that was set before Jesse was…intimidating, to say the least. He'd been told as it was being prepared that it was the meal that tourists ordered before they climbed nearby Mt. McKinley, mostly as a joke, but the name stuck and the pub had become moderately well-known for it.

He could see why. It came in five courses, each one richer than the last. First French Onion Soup with enough cheese on top to cause a coronary, then chili with cornbread (still in the cast iron skillet), then a plate of wings that came customizable (from 'pussy' to 'powder keg'), a whole pound burger and fries, and when they finally brought out the triple-decker chocolate cake, he was done. He leaned back in his stool and pushed the plate away. "No way, man…no more. You ladies can have this."

"Don't hafta tell me twice," Wendy said, fork at the ready, "Thanks, sug."

"Sure." He put both hands on his stomach and was slightly disturbed to feel that it had distended slightly. Maybe over-doing it hadn't been the best idea, but he'd been so damn hungry. He belched into his fist, then muttered, "S'cuse me…"

Maggie put a glass of something slightly yellowish and fizzing in front of him. He raised an eyebrow at it.

"It's Brioskee," she said, "You'll thank me later."

He glanced up at her, and then averted his eyes again. He could tell she kept staring at him, and it made his ears burn. The old man at the barber shop had done a fine job, but he was more conscious than ever of his scars and the last thing he wanted to do was answer questions. And it didn't help that he kept catching himself stealing glances at her. She was pretty in a real-life sort of way, her curly hair looked natural and she didn't seem to wear much make-up. In that way she reminded him of Andrea and 'No, stop it. That's over. Thinking about her doesn't help anything.' Besides, in every other way, the two were very different. Maggie seemed very together, and still very much free of real responsibility. She must have grown up the way you were supposed to, and in this town, that didn't surprise him.

He took a sip of the fizzing concoction. "Oh. Seltzer." He felt stupid for not realizing.

Wendy pointed at him with a forkful of cake. "Too bad ya couldn't finish this, hon. You'd've gotten your picture on the wall." She gestured behind the bar, where, above the shelves of liquor a small, hand-painted 'Hall of Fame' sign hung, surrounded by Polaroids of people who all looked like he felt.

"Nah," he shook his head, "You don't want my face up there, scaring people off."

Maggie set a glass she'd been drying down forcefully. "Don't say that!" Both Wendy and Jesse stared at her. Her face flushed almost as red as her hair and she hurriedly started clearing away his plates, disappearing into the kitchen.

Wendy let out a string of low giggles, while Jesse sat dumbfounded. 'Maybe she doesn't get out much…' he mused. "Alright, well, uh, this was great an' all, but I think I'm gonna go, whaddya call it? Hibernate? Yeah…" he slid off the barstool.

"Not even gonna say goodbye?" Wendy asked after him.

"I'll uh…I'll see you around. Pretty small town, after all," he said, and hurried out the door.

He made it back to his room quickly, and as he stripped down and climbed into bed, he reflected absently that it might be nice to live within walking distance of the bar. And barber. And everything really.

He rolled onto his back and raised his right hand towards the ceiling, staring at it. Even if his face wasn't a mess, the rest of him was. His hands were calloused, the skin dry and cracking, and he could make out faint tract-mark scars on his forearm. 'They were just small town girls, being nice because they don't get many visitors and know I've got cash…' He frowned, then cocooned himself in the comforter, and was asleep from pure exhaustion in minutes.