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She got up early as usual, cooked a pot of oatmeal that could last the whole morning, and made some other breakfast items. First, she urged everyone to get up, then, as per routine, cursed Frank a couple of times for disappearing to god-knows-where.
Only after everyone had eaten and scattered did Fiona have a little time to herself.
Now, she was hiding in her room with the door shut tight.
Several neat stacks of cash were spread out on the bed.
Four thousand three hundred and eighty-four dollars.
Although Fiona had counted it many times last night, every time she counted it, her heartbeat would inexplicably speed up a little.
The neater these bills were stacked, the more unreal they seemed.
"OK, confirm one more time—this is for the electricity bill, this is for the gas bill..."
Fiona counted the bills one by one again, pressing them onto the corresponding bills according to the amount, planning the destination of this money stroke by stroke in her mind.
"Look at this, a bed full of tempting Franklins."
V was lying on the other end of the bed, elbows propped on the mattress, chin resting in her palms, looking at these neat bills with envy in her eyes.
"Fi, right now you look more like a boss than the dealer on our street. How about lending Shane to me, let him help me pick up some money too?"
"Don't mention that!"
Fiona's face tightened, recalling the argument last night. That time had scared her half to death.
"If it happens again, I really don't know what to do."
The reason she could count this money so comfortably in front of V and roughly tell V about Shane's "good deed" was actually simple.
If there was only one person in this world who had seen "Fiona Gallagher" completely break down, dead drunk, crying inhumanly over a relief coupon, it was Veronica.
The two of them were the only pair of friends in this screwed-up neighborhood, this screwed-up South Side, who didn't have to pretend in front of each other.
They had confided secrets to each other that they absolutely couldn't tell their families, and both miraculously kept their mouths shut.
"So how do you plan to use it?"
V poked the stack of bills. "Planning to use it all to pay those bills that can never be filled?"
"Part of it."
Fiona thought for a moment. "Have to keep some as emergency money. And another part... I'm thinking about whether to replace the water heater with a normal one. There's never enough hot water at home; taking a shower requires scheduling like the army..."
Fiona rambled on. V watched her clench and unclench the bills in her hand, inexplicably feeling:
The four thousand-plus dollars Shane picked up didn't lighten her burden much. Instead, it seemed to press another layer of invisible responsibility onto her shoulders.
Before long, Fiona stacked all the bills and corresponding money in order, stuffed them into a cloth bag, put the bag away, and stood up to move her stiff shoulders.
"Let's go, hit the thrift store. Liam needs some decent thick clothes, and Carl's pants need replacing too. Otherwise, when it gets coldest, I'm afraid the two of them won't be able to handle it."
She was always thinking about her family.
"What about you?"
V jumped off the bed with a smile, teasingly gesturing at Fiona's chest.
"Want to spend two bucks to buy yourself a decent bra? I swear, last time I saw that strap of yours, I really thought it was a safety rope you stole from a construction site."
"Fck off."
Fiona cursed, but couldn't help laughing herself.
---
On the other side, in a quiet community a few streets away from South Side High, inside a red brick house that looked much sturdier than the Gallagher home.
Lip was sitting at the dining table, a stack of homework notebooks and several essay topic lists spread out in front of him.
Sitting across the table were several high school students looking at him nervously.
(This morning he had already finished the part of Shane's "mini-program," ran the code once, and then found time to come out and do his old job to earn some cash.)
Lip picked up one of the essay lists, looked at it, then glanced at these people: "So, you guys originally wanted to find Shane for these jobs?"
One of the blonde boys nodded: "Yeah, but he's not taking them anymore. He even suggested we come directly to you."
Lip flipped through the list, the corner of his mouth twitching: "Hmm, alright, but... the price has to go up."
These homework assignments and essay topics were no difficulty for him at all.
The only challenge was to deliberately write the answers a bit dumber, making some "reasonable" mistakes consistent with the students' level, to avoid being spotted by the teacher at a glance.
"Also, those tests, per old rules, full marks not guaranteed, but you won't fail."
The blonde boy's attention was clearly not on "failing or not," but on the price. He asked cautiously: "Then, how much more?"
Lip quoted a number that was just at their psychological limit. After speaking, he couldn't be bothered to look at their "cash-strapped" expressions, just shrugging:
"Now that Shane isn't doing it, you don't have a choice. Of course, there are always cheaper options, if you don't mind answers passed down from the previous grade, or those that have been used to death."
After a low and rapid discussion, the students finally nodded. "OK, OK..."
Deal reached.
---
Meanwhile, Ian was at school.
He was wearing a slightly oversized ROTC uniform, doing push-ups in the cold wind, the instructor's monotonous commands in his ears.
Ian's movements were standard, his breathing steady. Compared to the classmate next to him who was panting like a bellows, he was simply a "standard template."
"Ian, are you practically sleeping in the barracks?"
The boy next to him complained in a low voice, "How come you don't look tired at all?"
"Got used to it."
Ian smiled.
Actually, it was mostly because after seeing Shane's muscles that night, he found time to ask him to correct his posture, learned a few force-exerting techniques, and incidentally corrected some related body posture.
Sure enough, the same training was much easier now.
While doing the movements, he couldn't help thinking in his heart that after successfully enlisting, he would shamelessly pester Shane to create a personal training plan for him, so he could leave others in the dust as soon as he entered the barracks.
Thinking of this, he sighed quietly in his heart: his dream was to be a soldier, and to go to West Point.
It was just that, with the Gallagher family background, this wish was beautiful but slim.
---
At this moment, in the Gallagher living room, the TV was emitting crackle-pop static noise.
"Debbie! The satellite is acting up again!"
Carl pulled over a stool, stood on it barefoot, and reached out to pat the set-top box above the TV. "I haven't finished watching that show!"
Debbie burped Liam while glancing at him sideways. "That show is a rerun; you watched it three times yesterday."
After patting Liam for a while, she put her brother on the blanket, stuffed a teething toy into his hand, then picked up a pen and scribbled in a notebook.
It was her self-made "Chore Duty Roster."
"Carl!" Debbie shouted, "Today is your turn to take out the trash and clear the yard. Remember to pick up all those bottles you randomly scavenged. If I see them again, I'll let Shane spank you."
Thinking of Shane's merciless big palm, Carl's sphincter tightened involuntarily, but he still asked seriously:
"What about the home defense system?"
Ever since Shane "disposed of" his batteries and wires last time, he felt there was a major loophole in the home security system that had to be upgraded again.
"You can do it," Debbie said without looking back, "but no using things that can catch fire. Shane said anything flammable is absolutely forbidden."
Carl thought about it and could only hide the fireworks he just stole deeper, changing his research direction.
He decided to switch to tape and plastic bottles to make some "non-lethal" traps—
For example, hanging a bucket of cold water behind the door, adding some "surprises" like stones or nails inside.
---
Time passed unknowingly for two and a half hours. Near noon, several spray-shaped oil stains had appeared on the wall of the back alley of the bar.
Shane's arms and face also had several black marks. He had replaced all the spark plugs that needed changing and re-secured the loose wiring harness.
"Try again."
Shane breathed out a puff of white air, patted the hood, and stepped aside.
Kevin sat back in the driver's seat and turned the key with a pious face.
This time, the engine hummed hesitantly a few times, then with a vroom, exhaust gas spewed from the tailpipe, and the car body shook gently—the car finally started successfully.
"YES! YES!"
Kevin was as happy as if he had won the lottery, sticking his head out of the car window: "Not bad, Shane. Looking at your skills, you could open a repair shop!"
"Calm down, Kevin."
Shane wiped the engine oil off his face and hands with a rag. "It's barely roadworthy now; it might break down again anytime. When you have money later, I suggest you replace the whole set."
"Then wait until I strike it rich one day."
Kevin stepped on the gas lightly, extremely satisfied with this long-lost stable idle speed.
"But even if I fixed it, you can use this car anytime. Whether setting up a breakfast stall or hauling students... you know, Uncle Kevin always supports your small business. It's just... got to give a few insignificant Franklins."
"Fck off."