[ Jesse is slumped over the steering wheel, arms draped over it, heaving a barely controlled angry sigh. His hand is down at the ignition, fingers clutching the keys. It's useless even bothering to turn it: they're out of gas. They're out in the middle of freakin' nowhere and they're out of gas.

The afternoon sun is beating down on the already sweltering RV. Jesse, for some reason, is still in his yellow hoodie. Hasn't had time to take it off because Mr. White got spooked while they were in the middle of setting up for a cook and ordered Jesse to just start driving and, Jesus Christ, the goddamn adventure it's fucking taken them on. And now, they're out of fucking gas.

Jesse lets out an exasperatedly agonised groan at Mr. White before shoving himself upright and back into his seat. He slumps with a heavy sigh, eyes glaring petulantly out at the desert, jaw set tight, before angrily grabbing the hem of hoodie and yanking it up and off him. Hair all mussed and t-shirt all askew and caught up against his back, he throws the hoodie with force across to the passenger seat, then slams his arms back on the steering wheel and grips it tight in his fingers. Bracing himself to attempt to speak to this infuriating asshole about why them running out of his gas isn't his fault. Ugh, when is anything not his fault, according to Mr. White?!

When he speaks, it's slow, deliberately even, temper barely controlled. ]

I am telling you, Mr. White, for, like, the millionth, billionth time, I only got enough us gas to get us out to the boonies and back. Like we always do.

[ He lifts his head to glare over at Mr. White with wild frustration. ]

Are you gonna stop riding my goddamn ass about running outta gas because you [ an angry jabbing point right at Mr. White ] decided to take some Texas freakin' Chainsaw Massacre detour out to the middle of nowhere, because you [ even more accusing jabbing ] are paranoid about your [ finger jabbing right in Mr. White's face ] DEA brother-in-law tailing us?