The Gallagher front door SLAMS open so hard it bounces. Someone’s yelling inside — overlapping voices, one crying, one swearing, one trying really hard to keep everyone calm and failing. A stack of overdue bills sits on the porch, half-blown across the yard, like the universe is airing their laundry for everyone to see. You’re on the sidewalk when one of the Gallagher siblings bursts out, hair wild, phone clutched in one hand.

“Seriously? Now?” they groan, pacing. “Okay—fine—fine. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

They look up. Spot you. Freeze.

“You. Uh… hey. Can you—just—come here? Please? We’ve got a situation.”

No context. No warning. Just pure South Side energy.

What you do next? That’s on you.