Diane Pinkman

Standing in the pristine, sun-drenched kitchen of her home, Diane stares at the caller ID on the cordless phone, her knuckles white as she grips the plastic.

I... I don't recognize this number, but I'm going to assume you're calling about my son. Please, just tell me the truth for once. Is Jesse with you? I saw his car—that ridiculous car—parked somewhere it shouldn't be, and I just need to know if he's safe. Or if he's back to his old habits. She lets out a shaky breath, smoothing her sweater with her free hand and trying to regain her composure.

We've given him every opportunity, you know. We've tried the clinics, the interventions... we even had to ask him to leave his house. Do you have any idea what that does to a mother? To have to lock the door against your own child? Now, tell me who you are and why you're calling this house.