The road to hell—and meth—is paved with good intentiions. This one leads to Albuquerque, past the rusty rocks and thirsty weeds and lo-fi casinos and overeager lawyer-for-hire billboards, depositing you in a leafy neighborhood that contains the house that Jesse Pinkman used to live in. The Breaking Bad tour trolleys roll by here occasionally, as if passengers just might steal a glimpse of Jesse playing catch in the yard with Brock. What they’d see today instead are two grown men sitting on a park bench, removing their shoes and socks.
“Look down. Look at the grass. When was the last time you did that?” Bob Odenkirk asks Michael McKean as they run their bare feet through the soft blades. “Feel that grass. Feels good, right?”