At 2 p.m. in Chicago, Fiona sat at the table, the familiar metal cash box open in front of her.
The box was now stuffed full of greenbacks and coins. The money collected at noon hadn't been organized yet, looking even messier than in the morning.
She reached out and started taking it out.
Fiona's movements were slow, unlike the rapid counting in the morning.
She pulled out the bills one by one, separating them by denomination.
Tens in one stack, fives in another, ones and coins pushed aside.
Actually, Fiona had already counted the morning's money twice. She only needed to count the noon's takings.
But for some reason, she wanted to sort through all these Franklins again, as if only then could she be sure they were real.
"100... 300... 700... 1310!!!"
So the total revenue today was $1310 (profit $1053).
But calculating according to the "cost" Shane told her, today's profit was $917.
She couldn't stop thinking, "917 dollars... in just one morning."
Fiona put down the last stack of twenties, shock in her voice she couldn't suppress:
"917 dollars?! Shane, are you sure I didn't... miscalculate?! How about you count it again? This fcking... this is one morning's income?!"
Shane leaned against the kitchen door frame, checking how many tortillas were left in the fridge. Hearing this, he turned his head and shrugged.
"You didn't miscalculate."
"But don't get too excited. We are reaping the early dividends right now."
"What early dividends?"
Fiona didn't understand, or rather, she didn't want to understand. She just hoped every day after would have this income, so their family could live a good life soon.
"At the breakfast stall, veterans like Marcus haven't competed with us for now, no punks came to collect money, and no one reported us for having no license."
Shane walked to the table and pulled up a stool to sit down.
"At the construction site, because it's new, there are no fixed food trucks or stalls nearby. We seized the opportunity and covered lunch for most of the workers."
He paused, looking into Fiona's eyes. "So, today's profit might be the highest. It may not be like this every day in the future."
Listening, although the excitement on Fiona's face faded a bit, she still couldn't suppress her agitation.
She calculated quickly in her head: "Even if every day in the future is only half of today... no, even only one-third! That's still over 300 dollars profit! More than she earns working three jobs, standing from morning till night!"
(Shane had already told Fiona that this business would be hers in the future.)
Fiona got more excited the more she calculated. Bang! Bang! Bang!
She slapped the table: "Fck! I really regret not quitting all those jobs!"
Shane twitched the corner of his mouth. "It's not too late to quit now. But don't forget, agreed to give you 25%. Today $917, deducting Kevin's share, your 25%..."
He stopped here deliberately.
"206 dollars!"
Fiona blurted out.
She didn't even need to think much. "Even after deducting Kevin's share, over 200 dollars lands firmly in my hand. In the future, even if profit is less, there will be 120 dollars!"
Fiona remembered her days of hard labor. "This fcking... 200 dollars, an amount I might not earn running around for two days usually!"
Shane looked at his sister's flushed and excited face and said nothing more.
Fiona needed some time to digest this number and adapt to this "working" life.
After a while, Fiona's mood gradually calmed down.
She lowered her head, looking at the stacks of bills neatly organized on the table but still seemingly unreal in her eyes. She was too afraid the scene before her was just a dream.
At this time, the afternoon light shone on Franklin's portrait, reflecting a bit of oily ink sheen.
A strong emotion churned in her chest, mixed with surprise and a bit of regret.
Finally, Fiona took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
When she looked up again, the unseemly excitement from just now was gone from her eyes.
"Tomorrow," she asked, "what time do we get up?"
...
The next few days began to become regular.
Getting up at 5 a.m., alarms would ring on time in the basement and Fiona's room, and then the kitchen would soon clatter with activity.
Before leaving, Fiona would check Liam's blanket again, while Shane would habitually glance at the door lock—a subconscious action since Frank's attempted break-in.
Then busy at the subway entrance until past nine, then to the construction site to set up the stall.
Finally pack up, go home, count money.
Profits these two days were stable, hovering between eight and nine hundred. Although never breaking a thousand again, it didn't drop either.
The changes brought by money were visible to the naked eye.
The fridge began to be stuffed fuller, Fiona finally replaced that old bra that looked like a "safety rope," Thanksgiving ingredients were prepared properly long ago, and everyone bought some new clothes, the brand-new kind...
...
Time passed unknowingly until the evening of Thanksgiving. The cold wind of Chicago rolled with scattered snowflakes.
Frank rubbed his hands, a smile piled on his face. He was in an exceptionally good mood today.
Although he spent these days mixing through selling blood and scamming drinks as usual, the difference was that today was Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving meant the stupid world would proactively offer food and drink.
Churches would distribute free meals, charities would cook an extra pot of soup, and his own newly rich Gallagher family definitely had a 'big meal' waiting for him.
The occasional scent of meat wafting in the air made his empty stomach tighten, saliva flowing.
"Ah—" Frank yawned long. "Thanksgiving, the holiday I love."
Besides, it's been so many days, that kid's anger should have dissipated. He thought happily. Wasn't it always like this before? Make a fuss for a few days, eventually they still have to open the door for me.
Debbie will definitely rush over calling Daddy later. No matter how much of a stinking face Fiona puts on, she won't drive me away on Thanksgiving... maybe there's even a bottle of vodka waiting for me!
He staggered into his familiar broken street.
From a distance, he saw warm yellow light shining from his home's window.
And a faint scent of meat drifted over with the wind.
Frank's pace involuntarily quickened.
His Adam's apple rolled, his brain already starting to make up stories, thinking about how to pretend to be a "loving father" later to successfully get a free holiday feast.
But when he reached the door, his steps suddenly halted.
The door creaked open, and Shane walked straight out, his figure blocking the dim light of the porch.
He seemed to be holding something in his hand, but it wasn't clear.
Frank felt a little nervous, but smiled even brighter: "Hey! My dear son! Happy Thanksgiving! I came back specially to reunite..."
Shane didn't speak, just walked towards him.
Frank subconsciously raised his hands, starting to quibble:
"Hey! Calm down, my boy! That little misunderstanding a few days ago... I was just about to explain! Those breakfasts! I actually took them to let Kevin help you 'open up sales channels'! Market research! Pity... sigh, the money was stolen! I'm grieving right now..."
Bang!
A heavy punch smashed hard onto Frank's mouth.
Frank fell straight backward, the back of his head hitting the ground directly, causing his vision to go black.