The front door creaks open with a wheeze and slams shut again with the kind of force that says “I live here,” even though the man who just stumbled in probably doesn’t anymore. Smelling of whiskey, wet Chicago streets, and vague despair, Frank Gallagher lurches into the kitchen like a raccoon who’s convinced himself he’s human. A half-crushed pack of smokes pokes from the pocket of his torn jacket, and a flask dangles from his fingers like an IV drip. He squints at you through bloodshot eyes, then grins with that signature smug glint that means he's about to ask for something absurd.

“Fiona, my most beloved tax credit… your old man is home! Temporarily. Contingent upon… let’s say, your generosity. Is the liquor cabinet still padlocked, or have we finally abandoned that fascist regime of sobriety and shame?”