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Shane rolled up on his little scooter and parked it in the open patch next to the bonfire. The flas were already roaring high, and the crowd around the fire was laughing, yelling, and clinking beer cans together.
The second Shane and Karen stepped off, sobody spotted them and let out a round of good-natured catcalls and cheers.
"Hey, Shane! Heard you let that piece-of-shit Frank back in the house?"
"Shane, you really bringing him around? Aren't you worried Eddie's gonna see?"
Shane didn't bother answering any of that crap. He took Karen's hand and headed straight toward where Fiona was standing. As they pushed through the crowd he caught a couple familiar faces.
Mickey and Mandy were there too, hanging with a bunch of other Milkoviches. Mickey had his usual sour scowl while Mandy handed him a beer.
Right then a little commotion kicked up at the edge of the crowd. A figure squeezed through—it was Frank.
He slithered in like an old mud eel finally swimming back into the sewer, big grin plastered across his face.
God only knew how the hell he'd heard about the party.
He'd just co from Clive's place "fully loaded," of course. He hadn't left empty-handed. He'd left the accountant a note: "Clive, thanks for the temporary harbor. But real pain can't be cured by running away. I gotta face my destiny. You're a good man—don't let the world harden that soft heart of yours. Farewell, friend.—"
Why so sappy? Because Frank was smart. Always leave yourself an exit. If he ever got kicked out again, that cozy apartnt and that soft-hearted guy might still be there as backup shelter.
Frank wove through the crowd toward the little Gallagher corner.
He'd even co prepared with a few "welco-ho gifts," because he'd noticed the family was getting less and less impressed with him lately. Keep that up and even Debbie would eventually stop giving a shit.
He sidled up to Fiona first, pulled out a towel that had been washed so many tis it was faded and fuzzy, and flashed his biggest smile. "Fiona, my daughter. Chicago winters hit like a stepmom's backhand. This'll block a little wind for you."
Fiona stared at the old towel he'd clearly fished out of so charity donation box, her mouth twitching. She rolled her eyes hard and turned away.
Frank didn't miss a beat. He spun toward Debbie, dug a cheap plastic hair clip out of his pocket—the paint almost completely worn off—and held it up. "For the little princess of the Gallagher house. See? It matches you perfect."
Debbie hesitated. She glanced at Shane first. When he didn't react she reached out and took it, but she just held it in her hand instead of putting it in her hair.
Next was Carl. Frank pulled out a rusty wrench and handed it over all serious. "Carl, our little warrior. Take this—protect your sisters."
Carl's eyes lit up. A wrench! Way cooler than so hair clip.
He whooped and reached for it, but Fiona snatched it away. "Carl, that thing's filthy. Give it here." Carl pouted but didn't argue.
Frank turned to Lip next, pulling a beat-up magazine collection out of his jacket with a sleazy whisper. "Lip, my son. A man needs… knowledge—"
Lip didn't even look. He just snatched it, cocked his arm, and hurled the whole "porno anthology" in a perfect arc straight into the center of the bonfire. It disappeared in a whoosh of flas.
Frank's smile froze for half a second, then switched to that understanding "kids these days" look.
He shook his head and moved on to Ian, pulling out a pair of badly worn work gloves.
"Ian, I know training's kicking your ass. These are tough!"
Ian looked at the gloves, then at Frank's wrinkled face. He didn't say a word—just took them silently and tucked them under his arm.
Finally Frank shuffled over to Shane.
His smile turned extra oily, with a hint of real pain behind it.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out sothing wrapped in soft cloth. He unwrapped it—a decent secondhand film cara.
"Shane, my boy—" Frank's voice turned all sincere.
"I heard you're doing that internet stuff and need to shoot things. This old guy still has a great lens—Zeiss, real deal. I saved it special for you."
When he said "special," the corner of his mouth twitched.
God only knew how much it hurt him to hand that cara over. It could've bought him several bottles of the good stuff.
But Shane just looked at him, then at the cara. He didn't reach for it and he didn't tell him to fuck off either.
Frank forced a couple dry laughs, quickly rewrapped the cara, and stuffed it back in his jacket like he was scared Shane might suddenly change his mind and take it.
"Hahaha, no rush, no rush. Keep using your phone for now. I'll hold onto this for you—"
He backed up a few steps while he said it.
Gifts delivered, Frank headed for the beer case Kevin had hauled over. He grabbed a bottle, cracked it open, and took a long pull.
"Look at this heartwarming family portrait, all gathered around a civilized bonfire. Sure, the car probably belonged to so poor bastard, but damn if it ain't poetic."
Frank's gaze started sweeping across every Gallagher face.
"Fiona, my dear eldest. Used to be the pillar. Now she's busting her ass learning all the permits and back doors. The way she looks at Shane now? Not like another little brother she has to wipe after anymore. More like… the captain? The boss?"
"Ha. Too bad the world's rules work both ways. You learn them, they learn you. Every step forward costs an hour of sleep. Good or bad? Whatever, who gives a shit."
"Lip, our little genius. Did he just flip off again? Cute. That head of his could hold the whole internet, but he damn near booked himself a one-way ticket to juvie with it. Now Shane's got him on a leash… writing us so protection software."
"Genius turned watchdog—for free. He always thought he saw right through , but he's really just looking in a mirror, seeing the part of his Gallagher blood he doesn't want to admit. Watch—he'll let that arrogance drag him right back into this South Side sewer. I'll be waiting for that day."
"Ian—oh, Ian. Quiet. Obedient. Wearing the crappy gloves I gave him. You're the red-faced soldier carrying the whole family's discipline on your shoulders."
"Shane fed him that pie about the family store. He'll bite. He's always been the dumb kid who wanted this family to be normal the most."
BANG! Crackle-pop.
That little shit Carl had just dumped his secret stash of fireworks straight into the fire. Sparks flew everywhere, earning laughs and curses from the crowd.
"Carl and Debbie—one little wolf, one angel. Carl wants to conquer the world. Debbie just wants nobody to leave.
Haha! Give that boy a job and he thinks he's a general. Tell Debbie she did good and she'll forgive the whole damn family."
"So cheap. Cheaper than booze. More addictive than dope!"
"Shane gets it. He gives them titles, gives them positions, and boom—they treat him like the dad who won't disappear. In the South Side, the most luxurious thing ain't money. It's soone who stays."
"Ah, Liam. My—uh—son? Whatever. A blank check. A little life still waiting to be filled in. Whoever feeds him now is who he'll rember. I've got ti. No rush. Investnts need long-term returns."
Finally Frank's eyes landed on that figure hugging his blonde little girlfriend.
The firelight danced across his face, but his gaze looked hollow, like he was seeing way past the flas to sothing farther off.
A scornful little laugh echoed inside Frank's head.
"As for you, my lonely drumr," Frank thought, taking another big swig of beer in silent toast to his own unspoken judgnt.
"You're banging that drum way too loud, but the beat only has room for one player. You're the least like —you actually believe in building shit. Believe in a fucking future. You made one fundantal mistake, kid. You think this family needs saving."
The flas danced in Frank's eyes too while he tried to use his decades of street survival smarts to make sense of everything Shane was doing.
"I figured it out a long ti ago. This family just needs to be used."
"You've done so much for them and still almost got yourself tossed in a cell last night—you're killing yourself trying to build sothing, trying to lay a foundation in quicksand. But look around, my dear architect."
Frank's gaze swept over Kevin and Veronica laughing by the fire, Fiona trying to teach Carl the right way to roast marshmallows, Lip tilting his head back to drink.
"Look at these neighbors and family laughing around the flas. This is the soil we grow in. Chaos. Improv. Nothing guaranteed. You try to bring order—fuck, it's like laying bricks in a shithouse. Looks cleaner on top, but underneath it's still shit."
Frank paused. He caught that tired look in Shane's eyes again—not just physical exhaustion, but the kind that cos after you finally wake up and see the world for what it is.
Seeing that exhaustion gave Frank a nasty little thrill of satisfaction.
"You're the only one who really wants to—and actually could—get the hell out of here. But that just makes you lonelier, doesn't it? You protect them, they lean on you, but nobody really gets where you're trying to take them. Even you, after last night, started doubting, right? Wondering if any of this is worth it. Wondering if your blueprint's gonna get torched by the next stupid gamble."
The fire crackled, lighting up every wrinkle on Frank's face.
"Welco to the real world, kid."
Frank raised his bottle toward Shane in a little salute. Too bad Shane didn't see it.
Just as the smirk was starting to creep back onto Frank's mouth, Shane's eyes flicked his way.
Frank's smile froze solid.
In a split second, muscle mory took over. His back hunched a little and he yanked up a big, ass-kissing grin. He gave Shane a quick, eager nod.
Pure "I'm just drinking here, not thinking about shit, not doing shit" mode.
But Shane's gaze didn't linger. He just scanned the crowd once and went back to watching the fire.
Frank held the fake smile for several long seconds until he was sure Shane wasn't paying attention anymore. Then he let it drop.
He pursed his lips, turned away, and muttered under his breath.
All that grand inner monologue and philosophical superiority? It deflated with a sad little pfft.
"Shit…" he cursed to himself, feeling a wave of annoyance.
Why the hell am I scared of this kid? He's just a— he's just a—
Just what?
Frank couldn't even find the words for Shane, because the kid didn't match anybody he'd ever known.
It left him kinda panicked and kinda… not hopeful exactly, but curious and watchful about whether this set script was gonna get flipped.
Like watching sobody tightrope-walk over a shithole. Part of you wants him to fall and get covered in crap… but you can't stop wondering—what if he actually makes it?!
"Whatever. We'll see, drumr."
Frank's last thought ca out less certain than before. Instead it carried a flicker of curiosity and observation he didn't even want to admit to himself.
The flas kept burning, licking at the car.
Half of Frank's prophecy was just self-soothing bullshit. The other half—about trouble never really ending—might be right, might be wrong.
But at least for tonight, and for the foreseeable future, the one holding the wheel and setting the course wasn't chaos itself anymore.
It was that young figure who could make Frank instinctively wipe the smirk off his face in a heartbeat.
There'd be bumps ahead. The stench from the shithole wouldn't disappear. But the direction they were moving had been forcefully twisted by one powerful will.
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