By Ethan Ames

Season Six, Episode Thirteen: "Saul Gone"

Warning: Contains spoilers for Better Call Saul and Breaking Bad

At its core, Better Call Saul is a character study about choices and consequences. Our decisions, no matter how innocuous, shape our lives. Bad Choice Road, for any person, may be paved with small, accumulating decisions, good intentions or ignorance. Regardless of where any person finds themself in life, no one can change the past. What they can do, though, is reflect on their choices — and their regrets — and use them to inform the rest of their lives.

But since this show is a prequel, there's a sense of tragic predestination that clings to most of the major characters in the series.

"Saul Gone," written and directed by show-runner Peter Gould, is a self-contained parable about regret and the question of true change: what it means, what it looks like, and if it's even possible.

Our protagonist, Jimmy McGill/Saul Goodman/Gene Takovic/Viktor St. Claire, a man of many aliases and a singular brokenness, has been plagued by a persistent urge to be a wolf, rather than a sheep; to be a winner, rather than a victim. And by refusing to be a victim, Jimmy dooms himself to being a victim of his own worst impulses. The goodness within Jimmy is all but eroded as the series goes on.

But "Saul Gone" brings us to a most rare juncture, one in which Jimmy — not Saul — chooses accountability and penance for no sake other than its own. Or maybe it's simply to find himself in Kim's good graces again. But regardless, the result is to spend the rest of his life behind bars. This degree of self-sacrifice is previously unheard of for Jimmy, a man who, in spite of his good intentions, seldom made a choice that wasn't self-serving.

The jig is up: Saul Goodman is 'saul gone...mostly. It's not entirely clear, and it's part of what makes this episode — and Better Call Saul as a whole — such a masterpiece. 

Although this episode explores multiple periods within the show's timeline, they can be divided into two distinct sections, both of which I'll explore in depth: the past (in the timelines of Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul) and the black-and-white present, a time in which life, for our two remaining protagonists, is all but completely devoid of joy.

The Past (A Time Machine)

The flashback sequences whisk us away in a proverbial time machine to three ghosts of Jimmy's past: Mike, Walter and Chuck. Like the Ghosts of Christmas Past, these dead men all helped to shape Jimmy into who he became. In each scene, Jimmy poses the question of a time machine, and what they might do with one. It's a poignant and relevant motif: the past, indeed, informs Jimmy's present. Each character serves as a sounding board for Jimmy's mental state, and on some level, the interactions end up serving as context for his choices in the episode. 

We open the episode with a flashback to Jimmy and Mike's near-death trek through the Mexican desert in season five's "Bagman." After stumbling upon an enormous tank of potable water, the two men take a much-needed breather. After briefly suggesting they both abscond with Lalo's seven million dollars, Jimmy asks Mike where he'd go if he had a time machine. 

Mike immediately sees this as an opportunity to air out his own regrets. He initially says December 8th, 2001, which we can assume is when his son Matty was murdered. But then Mike states March 17th, 1984 — the day he took his first bribe as a cop. 

In his mind, if he hadn't taken the bribe, perhaps the chain of events that led to his son's death might never have happened. And Matty's death was the catalyst for his move to Albuquerque, which soon led him into the Gus's orbit. The rest is history.

Let's talk about Mike for a minute, because he's a unique foil for Jimmy. He speaks plainly, where Jimmy is disingenuous, and he's accepting, where Jimmy is mostly in denial. And, crucially, Mike is consciously plagued by regret, while Jimmy can neither access nor express his own.

Mike's not impervious to rationalizations, though, in that, similarly to Walter, he genuinely believes that being a fixer for a ruthless drug lord is one way he can do right by his family. To him, he's an honorable thief, and he lives with all of what and who he is. When it comes to his regrets, he doesn't hem and haw, nor does he cast blame externally. There's an air of acceptance about him, in spite of the single-mindedness that will eventually lead him to his death, with his family's nest egg in the hands of the DEA. Ultimately, his toil will all be in vain. But he can't know that yet, not even with a time machine, and it adds to the brilliant fatalism that is Mike in this prequel. 

Mike returns the question to Jimmy, and what Jimmy says, or doesn't say, speaks volumes of his enigmatic emotional core. He says he'd go back to 1965 and invest a million dollars into Berkshire Hathaway, to eventually become a billionaire. This is, obviously, superficial and ridiculous.

Mike can't accept this. "That's it? Money?"

Even Mike, a man who'd just about seen it all, was capable of incredulity at Jimmy's skewed priorities. 

Jimmy's avaricious response ("What else?") is a front, so that nobody can look at him any closer. 

But Mike is shrewd. He presses Jimmy: "Nothing you'd change?"

Jimmy considers for a moment, and we can see the hint of an internal struggle written across his face. But ultimately, he's having none of it and and he cuts the conversation off abruptly. "I'm rested." 

Of course, he isn't rested. He's just so done with this clearly sensitive subject.

In coming to the brink of true honesty, Jimmy backs away from the precipice. He can't bring himself to speak vulnerably. If he's capable of introspection at this moment, he can't vocalize whatever he might be feeling. Even in response to Mike's own honesty, or perhaps for that very reason, he just can't do it, even in spite of the traumatic events that brought him to this juncture. Jimmy's fear of vulnerability wins out in the end. This is important, because it informs his behavior in the next blast from the past.  

The next flashback brings us to the basement of Ed the Disappearer's vacuum repair shop, circa Breaking Bad's penultimate episode, "Granite State." There, Walter White (Bryan Cranston) and Saul lie low, waiting to be carted off to their own DIY-witness-protection-program destinations.

Of the three flashbacks in this episode, this one is my favorite. For one, it’s probably the most miserable middle-aged sleepover party that ever happened, so it gets bonus points for Schadenfreude. But the juxtaposition of these two men together, in this singularly unfortunate situation, reveals much about each of their psyches. They're both living in the immediate fallout of personal cataclysms, yet they're unable to express any meaningful regrets, even when there's cause for plenty.

To quickly recap and provide some context for this scene: this one takes place within a day or two of the events of "Ozymandias," the notoriously devastating episode of Breaking Bad in which Uncle Jack, Todd and their Neo-Nazi gang murder Hank and Gomie, steal the bulk of Walter's drug money, imprison Jesse as a meth-cooking slave, and Walter is outed to the world as Heisenberg. By proxy, Saul's life as Heisenberg's complicit criminal lawyer is irrevocably over, and he's on the run as much as Walt is. It’s been a busy couple of days for these two.

That being said, despite Walter's life having come crashing down around his ears in the most traumatic way possible, he busies himself trying to fix the hot water in the basement, and he's in full-on asshole mode. After a pensive, miserable silence, Saul brings up the topic of a time machine, asking Walter what he'd do with one. 

Walt haughtily shoots down the question on a technical basis, telling Saul that time travel is impossible and would violate "the Second Law of Thermodynamics."

But Saul persists, and Walt, accurately, insists that he isn't asking about a time machine, so much as regrets. "So, if you want to ask about regrets, just ask about regrets, and leave all this time traveling nonsense out of it.”

Saul says: "Okay, regrets, then." 

Walt stalls a moment, muttering, "My regrets, all right...my regrets..." He then looks down at his watch on the night-table, the one Jesse gave him for his fifty-first birthday. 

This subtle moment informs the rest of the scene so beautifully: Walter's regrets, particularly about Jesse, whom he deeply cared for in his own (very) dysfunctional way, run far deeper than he cares to admit.

Instead, he launches into the same tired spiel about how Gretchen and Elliott Schwartz pushed him out of Gray Matter, which is, as Breaking Bad viewers came to know, a fallacy. In this instance, he can't, or won't, be honest, with himself, nor anyone else.

Same goes for Saul: when Walt idly returns the question, almost out of boredom, Saul pauses, and his discomfort is palpable. It's as if he isn't ready for the question.

But as Walt says, "You know what? Never mind," Saul hurriedly relays the story of how he injured his knee during a "slip-and-fall" back in Illinois. Rather than discussing anything that might point to the core of who Saul truly is, he opts for a superficial example. 

"A slip-and-fall?" Walt asks, incredulous. 

Saul is matter-of-fact, as if this M.O. was a logical way for people to get ahead in life. "Yeah. It's how I put myself through bartending school." 

Walt stands up from the bed and towers over Saul. "Right. So...so you were always like this."

This takes Saul completely aback, and he looks stunned, as if Walt has slapped him. Walt then continues fixing the hot water, leaving Saul with this casual indictment of his character, and the scene fades away, another intangible yet fixed memory.

It’s a fundamental question of the series: was Jimmy was always like this? Can we, like Walt did, simply take him at face value and see him as just a scumbag, someone who rips people off as a matter of course? To me, the answer is both yes and no. Because Saul wasn't always the broken man who sat before Walt in that miserable basement. But the seeds of who he ultimately became existed from the beginning. 

Particular to Jimmy's own set of circumstances was an apparent inability to succeed by doing things on the straight-and-narrow. Because, in his mind, doing things "the right way" never yielded any success. On a material and professional level, Jimmy McGill only got ahead when suppressing his humanity. And, more importantly, by denying the goodness within him, Jimmy circumvented his pain, indefinitely hitting the snooze button on his ethics as he descended further into the persona of Saul Goodman.

But at one point, he was a good person, even in spite of his extracurricular activities. This is perfectly exemplified in Kim and Jesse's flashback exchange in "Waterworks." Jesse asks Kim if Saul is a good lawyer, to which Kim replies, clearly with more than one meaning:

"When I knew him, he was."

This leads us to our final flashback, one which gets to the core of Jimmy's regrets, the ones he's thus far been unable to admit. The very first line of the scene — "Did you ground yourself?" — effectively orients us in Chuck's lantern-lit house. 

This sequence most likely takes place not long before the pilot episode. Jimmy, in typical fashion, is delivering groceries to his mentally ill brother. Although he was ultimately enabling Chuck, rather than directing him to actual, professional help, his heart was in the right place at the time. Knowing where both characters, and their relationship, ultimately end up lends a tragic wistfulness to this sequence. The McGill brothers weren't always at each other's throats, at least not outwardly. 

Chuck asks Jimmy why he's helping him, when someone from HHM could be doing it, especially while Jimmy's trying to start a practice. 

Jimmy responds: "'Cause you're my brother. Duh. You'd do the same for me."

This one hurts. In hindsight, we know this may not have been true. But despite their later acrimony, and Chuck's resentment toward Jimmy, Chuck did love his brother, on some level. We can see it here, even if Chuck can’t fully embody it.

As Jimmy turns to leave, Chuck calls to him. "If you don't like where you're heading, there's no shame in going back and changing your path."

Jimmy says: "When have you ever changed your path?"

In this, Jimmy's right: Chuck was incapable of changing. And because of that, Jimmy’s fate was sealed. 

Chuck's deep resentments helped lay the path for Jimmy's perdition. Jimmy's path was never destined to change, because Chuck would never allow it. In order for Jimmy to truly grow, that would have necessitated encouragement and support from his brother. But Chuck couldn't, or wouldn't, give him that. It was never in the cards.

And so, Bad Choice Road was already laid before Jimmy from the very beginning: starting with the "wolves and sheep" grifter from his childhood and his father's overly-trusting nature, to his brother's malice and undermining, and, of course, Walter White — they all helped to seal Jimmy's fate. As in life, there was no singular factor that created Saul Goodman. His creation was an aggregate of circumstances that could neither be avoided nor undone.

The two brothers would never see the other clearly. The relationship would never heal, and would never see better days.

As Jimmy departs, we see that on the countertop by Chuck's hand is a copy of H.G. Wells's The Time Machine, the same book we see in Saul's mansion in the cold open of the season premiere. Most likely, Jimmy either kept this very same copy, assuming it wasn't lost in the fire that took Chuck's life, or got a copy for himself. But knowing that Chuck was reading this book, it provides a context for Jimmy's time machine question.

From this, we can infer that Jimmy's biggest regrets come to down to Chuck. This is where all of his worst actions stemmed from: while Jimmy had his own agency, and could've become a better man, Chuck stymied him, and laid before him a self-fulfilling prophecy.

In the season three finale, the last time the McGill brothers ever spoke before Chuck's suicide, Chuck said to Jimmy: "In the end, you're going to hurt everyone around you. You can't help it. So stop apologizing and accept it. Embrace it. Frankly, I'd have more respect for you if you did."

Ultimately, Jimmy did do just that: hurt everyone around him and embrace his nefariousness. Chuck's lack of support helped edge him in that direction, and his suicide furthered the emotionally-arrested Saul Goodman. And Chuck's suicide was indirectly caused by Jimmy's actions, a fact that Jimmy admitted to no one, until this episode.

But, in spite of the path being laid before him, Jimmy is still capable of changing course.

Which leads me to:

The Present (End of the Line)

Since Jimmy/Saul/Gene made a split-second decision to spare Marion's life, he's now on the run, and on foot. It's a bold choice that the show-runners and writers made to have the cops catch Saul within minutes of the episode's kickoff. After hopping into a dumpster (fitting) and attempting to call Ed the Disappearer, the police knock on the lid of the dumpster, and that's it. We were never destined to see Saul engage in a protracted police chase. “Caught by the cops in a dumpster, after a nation-wide manhunt? Better Call Saul!”

Odenkirk's performance in this episode is a testament to his acting range. After having a near-nervous breakdown in solitary confinement, Saul reads a chicken-scratched message etched in the concrete wall of his cell: "My lawyr will ream ur ass." We can see something click in his mind, and the next thing we know, Bill Oakley, now a defense attorney (as alluded to by Francesca two episodes prior), is conscripted as Saul's advisory council. Despite Oakley's skepticism, given that Saul is almost sure to lose any case, he succumbs to Saul's rationale: that representing the infamous Saul Goodman will put him on the map. Even in custody, Saul’s working an angle.

Despite the indignity of his current position, Saul mines his calculated-arrogance-as-a-defense-mechanism. It's all he has to work with. Oakley asks him how he thinks it will all end, knowing the prosecution has a mountain of evidence to work with. Regardless, Saul replies: "With me on top, as always." Whether or not he believes his own words — his expression implies otherwise — it's textbook faking it 'til you make it, which we know Saul is abundantly capable of.

As Saul and Bill meet with the prosecution in jail, Saul spies Marie Schrader, accompanied by Austin Ramey, Hank's old boss in the DEA. A fantastically layered scene unfolds, wherein Saul draws upon a skill we've watched him perfect throughout the series: telling (some of) the truth in service of a greater lie.

The truth: Saul was abducted by Walter White, and brought to an open grave in the desert at gunpoint. The lie: Saul was forced into working for Heisenberg under duress, and he lived in constant fear of Heisenberg. For the majority of his relationship with Walt, though, Saul saw Walt as haphazardly inept; someone who was in woefully over his head. Only toward the end of his tenure as Walt's lawyer did he come to appreciate the monstrousness within Heisenberg. By the time he saw it, he was in too deep. And, if Walt's power was a forest fire, Saul provided the tinder. 

Marie's appearance in this episode, unlike Walt and Jesse's prior, is more unexpected, given how disconnected she was from Saul's everyday operations. We can assume that she hardly knew of his existence until after Hank's death (she probably had seen his commercials, but who in Albuquerque hadn't?). In spite of this, Marie's obvious hatred of Saul makes sense. Everyone else connected to Hank's death is either dead (Walt) or on the lam (Jesse). So, Saul is the last man standing, the sole remaining embodiment of the evil that was Walt’s meth empire. Her mistrust and anger are entirely justified, but also validated, as she witnesses first-hand Saul spinning a transparent web of manipulation. He’s never been more grotesquely Saul-ish in this moment, seizing an angle and wriggling his way through it, and it’s a foul sight.

The prosecution sees the lie for what it is, too, but Saul's supposition — that only one juror needs to believe his lie in order for him to walk free — is a gamble they're not willing to take. And so, they cut him a sweetheart deal of seven-and-a-half years in the same white-collar prison that held Bernie Madoff. The deal is outrageously generous, given that they had been gunning for a sentence of upwards of two hundred years minutes earlier. It appears that Saul has come out on top, given the circumstances. We can’t be too surprised, though, given his deftness as a hustler.

But Saul just has to push the envelope and use the one card he has left to play. And that would be the truth about Howard's death. And given his last acrimonious conversation with Kim, he decides to throw her under the bus, while he's at it. Supremely smug, he dangles the prospect of spilling the beans and incriminating her, in exchange for a weekly pint of mint-chocolate chip Blue Bell ice cream while incarcerated. Because, why not? He’s riding high, and it’s gross. 

But the prosecution stops him in his tracks, informing him that Kim — Kim! — already spilled her guts on the matter to the Albuquerque DA. Saul is stunned, the wind instantly taken out of his sails. Meek and silent, he takes the deal as-is.

On the flight back to Albuquerque (on a Wayfarer plane, a subtle callback to the same airliner involved in the plane collision in Breaking Bad), Saul asks Oakley for details about Kim's confession, and what awaits her, consequences-wise. Oakley tells him that Howard's wife, Cheryl, is currently interviewing lawyers, and that Kim is likely facing a massive civil suit.

We can see the gears turning in Saul's head for a moment. Then, he tells Oakley, intentionally within earshot of the air marshal beside him, that he has more damning evidence on the subject of Howard's death, and that he plans to incriminate Kim in his testimony.

We return to Titusville, Florida, where Kim continues on with her humdrum life. Slowly, though, the Kim of past days begins to surface again. She walks into a low-income legal aid center, and signs up as a volunteer. It seems that her confession has freed something within her; gradually, she's beginning to liberate herself from her self-imposed shackles. It's a glimmer of hope in an otherwise literally gray existence. And it's crucial that this return to form is a result of her last conversation with Saul. Without it, and her subsequent confession that followed, she may have remained behind her weird Floridian shell indefinitely. For better or worse, Saul's and Kim’s fates are intertwined, which is further exemplified later in the episode.

Kim receives a call from DA Suzanne Erickson in Albuquerque, delivering the news that not only has Saul been apprehended, but that he's planning on incriminating her with his testimony. The board is set for something of a reunion between her and her ex-husband, and Kim prepares to return back to her old home city once more, under woefully inauspicious circumstances - his trial. 

On his court date, Saul is ushered into the courtroom in a garishly on-brand suit. Even in black-and-white, we can only imagine those clashing patterns (silver and sequins, maybe? I dunno. It looks bad). He turns to the back to the room to see that Kim is, indeed, present for the proceedings. The trial aptly titled "the United States vs. Saul Goodman" commences, with Saul finagling the judge into allowing a statement from the defense, i.e., himself. He launches into a retread of the false confession he made to Marie and the prosecution days earlier. 

But then, Saul does something unexpected: he begins to actually confess, fully and truthfully, to everything, all while the judge and Oakley both attempt to dissuade him from contradicting his previous testimony.

Saul admits that he "lied to the government about Kim Wexler...I just wanted her to come here today. I wanted her to hear this."

He admits that while he started out in fear of Walter White, but that changed quickly. He was integral to the creation of the empire that Heisenberg created. While he wasn't present while the meth was cooked or sold, or while the murders occurred, he knew about everything. 

"I was more than a willing participant — I was indispensable. I kept Walter White out of jail. I laundered his money, I lied for him, I conspired with him, and I made millions...The fact is: Walter White couldn't have done it without me." 

And with those words, he turns around to gaze at Kim, as Oakley fumbles impotently to salvage the defense. Kim's composure doesn't break. Saul seems desperate for a flicker of something from the love of his life, and he turns back to the judge to lay more of his soul bare. 

It's apparent that this confession is solely for Kim; the judge, Marie, and the prosecution are simply collateral witnesses. It's both a self-defeating and self-liberating Hail Mary. By confessing, he's freeing his soul and damning himself to life-imprisonment. He knows this. And yet, in seeing Kim's lack of expression, he realizes it's not enough. He'll never be at peace without reaching her. He'll have to be even more honest.

He addresses Howard Hamlin's murder, saying that afterward, "Kim had the guts to start over. She left town, but I'm the one who ran away." Kim's expression begins to soften, subtly.

Saul isn't finished, and he speaks to his relationship with Chuck, the last confession and arguably his biggest regret.

"He was an incredible lawyer. Th most brilliant guy I ever met, but he was limited. I tried. I could've tried harder. I should have. Instead, when I saw a chance to hurt him, I took it. I got his malpractice insurance canceled. I took away the one thing he lived for: the law. After that, he killed himself. And I'll live with that."

As he says this, we can see that these words have unlocked something within her. Kim looks to the ceiling, exhaling sharply.

As Saul returns to his seat, Oakley asks him why he admitted to his discrediting of Chuck.

"That wasn't even a crime."

He replies: "Yeah, it was." 

This is telling, in that in implies a level of conscience that extends beyond being simply performative, or manipulative, in his confession. These are his regrets, the ones he's shied away from accessing for so long. For the first time, possibly ever, he's openly admitting to himself and the world that his actions were reprehensible. Whenever Jimmy (not Saul) recognized any culpability, or admitted it, it was usually to further his own ends. To an extent, one could say that this entire exercise of incriminating himself was to get himself back into Kim's good graces. But even still, it's a major sacrifice. Sustaining and rebuilding his connection to Kim matters more to him than the hollow, so-called freedom he experienced as both Saul and Gene.

The judge orders Mr. Goodman to sit down, and he announces: "The name's McGill. I'm James McGill."

And we’ve finally come full circle. The fact that something as meaningful as his connection to Kim supersedes his freedom shows that this is, indeed, Jimmy McGill before us now, not Saul Goodman. Saul was the hideous, selfish bastardization of Jimmy, someone who existed within his skin without any of the morality or conscience. Saul Goodman wouldn't do what Jimmy has just done. Saul was only out for himself.

A beautifully unspoken moment transpires next. Both Seehorn and Odenkirk display just how fully they both embody and inhabit these characters. He turns to look at Kim. And, for the first time in years, Jimmy and Kim see each other once more with unadulterated familiarity. For a moment, it's as if they're the only other people in the room. Within her gaze, we can see gratitude...and love. He looks down for a moment, woeful, then looks back to her with a half-smile on his face. He knows the price he's paying. And it was worth it to him.

So often do we hear the tired old courtroom preamble of "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God" murmured in movies and TV. But in a show as preoccupied with dishonesty as Saul, to actually witness our perennially-dishonest protagonist speak the whole truth is a masterclass in delayed gratification. After an entire episode (and series) showing Jimmy’s fundamental aversion to honesty, we finally see him break through to the other side.

The price: Jimmy is sent to a maximum-security penitentiary in Colorado, ADX Montrose, far from the resort-prison he'd finagled in his seven-year plea deal. On the bus to prison, the incarcerated passengers recognize him as Saul Goodman, and they begin to chant his slogan and stomp in unison — "Better - Call - Saul!" — in reverence, and we know that Jimmy's going to be okay. He's a living legend, the big man on campus. Even if it’s a little out of place, the chant reads as a well-earned victory lap for the creators of the show. It’s their own “Yeah, bitch!” moment.

Weeks or months later, Jimmy's mixing bread in the prison kitchen, in a task not so far off from his job in Omaha. As he works, a C.O. calls to him, alerting him that his lawyer wants to see him. He perks up, confused, and begins to shuffle off. As he does, one of his fellow inmates gives him a fist bump and address him as Saul. Alas, Jimmy can't escape his alias and his deeds, but he's at peace with it. After all, he's recognized as Jimmy by the one person on Earth who matters to him. And he'll live with that.

And, speak of the Devil: his "lawyer" is actually Kim. The jailer removes his cuffs and departs, and it's just the two of them. In a beautifully-shot scene, they share a cigarette and lean against the sun-striped concrete wall together, in a mirror image of their first scene together in the garage of HHM. It's poignant symmetry, and it's bittersweet. Their lives will never be the same, but in this moment, it’s almost like old times again. 

As Kim lights the cigarette, the flame flickers in color, a delicate but brilliant jet of yellow incandescence in a colorless world. 

Kim appears to have forgiven him, except for having doomed himself to 86 years behind bars. Jimmy's not exactly regretful, but he's wistful. He feigns optimism. "86 years. But, with good behavior...who knows?"

Kim seems almost amused at this. But she's quietly devastated. The man she loves will likely remain behind bars for the remainder of his days. But without Jimmy's display of penance, they may never have reunited. And without Kim's confession to the DA, Jimmy would never have confessed. Despite this grim outcome, Jimmy and Kim will be forever connected. Their love is like the flame of Kim’s lighter, defiant and quietly enduring. It’s both heartbreaking and satisfying.

As she exits the prison, he stands in the yard, gazing at her longingly through two rows of barbed-wire fencing. As she turns around for once last glance, Jimmy shoots his finger guns in her direction, a cheeky echo of their glory days as Saul and Slippin' Kimmy. It's unclear whether or not Kim returns the gesture — while her arms stay at her side, her hand assumes a similar finger-pistol shape — but regardless, those days are over. Kim leaves the man she loved (and likely still loves) locked away in Montrose. She may return, or she may not. It's a beautifully ambiguous conclusion, one that still manages to resolve its fundamental questions.

Jimmy was always a gifted con-man, someone with a flexible relationship with truth and morality. But he wasn't always Saul Goodman. Not really. He was, like most of us, a mixture of both good and bad. The payoff in "Saul Gone" lies in the fact that, for what was likely the first time in his life, Jimmy chose to own his wrongdoings and accept the consequences without caveats. With Kim's love, for the first time, he'll manage to fully and honestly live with himself.

A question lingers: without his act of self-sacrifice, could Jimmy, after all of this, have changed? There's no easy answer. His habits were so deeply entrenched that it may have forever been a struggle to escape the pull of his Slippin' Jimmy ways.

But I tend to think that his confession was a small but significant shift for the better. Jimmy changed, paradoxically, by surrendering to the fact that he probably couldn't, or wouldn't, change. 

Better Call Saul is peak storytelling, one of the greatest shows to ever grace the airwaves, one that can comfortably sit at the top of the heap along with its forebears Breaking Bad and The Sopranos. It was, at heart, something of a Greek tragedy: emotionally complex, vexing, shocking, thought-provoking and oftentimes very funny.

The small but mighty flame of hope this show leaves us with, like the one at the end of Kim’s lighter, is this: we can’t change the past. We can’t undo our wrongs, and we must live with our regrets. But living with our regrets, honestly and without denial, is a necessary state of being in order to truly change. Jimmy McGill's life story was an ongoing flirtation with the allures of Bad Choice Road, and he went down a path he couldn’t undo. But change is possible. Even if you're Saul Goodman, it's never too late to get off Bad Choice Road.