Chapter 6: Lip's Laptop and Seeds of Suspicion
Phillip Gallagher showed up two days later carrying a laptop like it was made of glass and gold in equal measure.
Ben was under a car—a '02 Taurus with a transmission that sounded like a cement mixer full of rocks—when he heard someone clear their throat above him. He rolled out on his creeper to find a teenager watching him with the particular brand of arrogance that came from being smarter than everyone around you and knowing it.
"You Ben?" the kid asked.
"That's me."
"I'm Lip. Fiona's brother." He hefted the laptop. "Got something that needs fixing."
Ben stood, wiping grease from his hands. Lip Gallagher in the flesh. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, with sharp features and eyes that tracked everything. The kind of kid who could calculate angles faster than most people could read them.
"What've you got?" Ben asked.
Lip set the laptop on the workbench with exaggerated care. "Found it in a dumpster behind Northwestern. Probably just needs basic repair. I figure I can sell it for a few hundred once it's working."
Ben's MacGyver Mind activated automatically. The laptop was a decent model, maybe two years old. But the moment he opened it, he saw the damage: liquid stains on the motherboard, corrosion around the CPU socket, the distinctive pattern of water damage that had been left to dry without being properly cleaned.
"Where'd you really find this?" Ben asked.
"Told you. Dumpster."
"Dumpster at Northwestern specifically?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Just making conversation." Ben examined the damage more closely. The motherboard was salvageable—barely—but it would require micro-soldering, component replacement, and hours of work that wouldn't be worth the laptop's resale value. "This is pretty damaged."
"But you can fix it?"
Lip's eyes were tracking Ben's hands, watching how he handled the components, cataloging his tools. The kid was analyzing his process, trying to learn, trying to understand. That hungry intelligence Fiona had mentioned—wasted on small-time hustles because no one had ever told him there was more.
Ben made a decision.
"Yeah, I can fix it," he lied. "But it'll take time. Few days, maybe a week. Got other jobs ahead of it."
"How much?"
"Thirty for parts, twenty for labor. Fifty total."
Lip's face showed relief. He'd been expecting more. "Deal. When can I pick it up?"
"Come back Thursday. Should be done by then."
"Cool." Lip pulled out a twenty, put it on the workbench. "Down payment. Rest when I pick it up."
He started to leave, then paused. Turned back with studied casualness. "Fiona said you helped her out. With the washing machine."
"Just did a repair."
"Yeah, but you charged way less than it cost. She's suspicious about that. Thinks you might want something."
Ben met his eyes. "I don't."
"Everyone wants something."
"Maybe I just like fixing things."
Lip snorted. "Nobody likes fixing things that much. But whatever. She likes you, so that's good. Just don't be another Steve."
"Who's Steve?"
"This guy she's seeing. Rich boy slumming it in our neighborhood. Real piece of work." Lip's contempt was evident. "Anyway, thanks for helping with the machine. Made her week."
He left before Ben could respond. Ben looked down at the laptop, then at the twenty-dollar bill, feeling the weight of another commitment settling on his shoulders.
He couldn't actually fix this laptop. Not worth it, and not without revealing abilities that would raise too many questions. But he'd told Lip to come back, created an excuse for more conversations.
Because Lip needed those conversations. Needed someone to plant the idea that his intelligence could be used for more than scams and tutoring girls. That college was possible, that there was a path out of South Side that didn't require abandoning his family.
Ben spent the next hour pretending to work on the laptop while actually planning what to say when Lip returned. How to nudge without pushing. How to suggest without revealing he knew exactly how Lip's story would unfold if left unchanged.
Lip came back three days later, earlier than scheduled. Ben was restocking supplies when the garage door rolled up and Lip walked in, hands in pockets, trying to look casual.
"Laptop done?" he asked.
"Not yet. Said Thursday."
"Yeah, but I was in the area." Lip wandered toward the workbench where the laptop sat, disassembled. "This is more complicated than you thought, huh?"
"Bit more water damage than expected."
"But you can fix it?"
"Probably."
Lip picked up a screwdriver, examined it like he was considering buying it. The kid was nervous about something, using the visit as an excuse.
"School going okay?" Ben asked, because sometimes the direct approach worked.
"School's boring."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Teachers are idiots. Curriculum's designed for the lowest common denominator." Lip set down the screwdriver, picked up a socket wrench. "I could teach most of those classes better than they do."
"Probably," Ben agreed. "Being the smartest person in a South Side high school is like being the fastest turtle, though."
Lip's head snapped up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means being smarter than everyone around you doesn't mean much if everyone around you is..." Ben shrugged. "Look, no offense to your school, but it's not exactly known for academic rigor."
"So what, I should care about school? Try harder?"
"Didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"I implied that maybe being the smartest in a small pond is less impressive than you think. But that's none of my business." Ben went back to organizing his tools, letting the comment sit.
Lip was silent for a long moment. Ben could feel him processing, pride warring with curiosity.
"You think I should go to college?" Lip asked finally.
"I think you could get into any college you want if you applied yourself. Whether you should is your call."
"College costs money."
"Scholarships exist. Financial aid. You're smart enough to know that."
"And I'm supposed to leave Fiona handling everything alone? Leave my family?"
Ben looked at him. "Is that why you're not trying, or is that the excuse you give yourself?"
Lip's expression hardened. "You don't know anything about my family."
"You're right. I don't." Ben held up his hands. "Just saying, wasting potential because you're scared of what happens if you succeed—that's a choice. Own it or change it, but don't pretend you don't have options."
"Who the fuck are you to—"
The garage door rolled up again. Carl Gallagher appeared like a ghost, somehow having followed his brother without being noticed. The kid grinned when he saw them.
"Thought I heard you leave," Lip said.
"I'm sneaky." Carl immediately started investigating Ben's tools with the same focused intensity as before. "Did you teach him about explosives yet?"
"No," Ben said.
"Why not? You obviously know how."
"How would I obviously know that?"
Carl pointed at a container of acetone on a shelf. "You've got acetone, paint thinner, and aluminum powder. That's like, two-thirds of a pipe bomb right there."
Lip grabbed Carl by the collar. "Jesus Christ, Carl. Don't say shit like that."
"What? It's true."
"You can't just—" Lip looked at Ben apologetically. "Sorry. He's got issues."
"I don't have issues," Carl protested. "I'm just interested in chemistry."
"You're interested in blowing shit up."
"Same thing."
Ben watched them bicker with something approaching affection. This was the Gallagher dynamic—constant verbal sparring that somehow indicated love. They insulted each other like it was an Olympic sport, but underneath was genuine care.
"You guys want a Coke?" Ben asked, interrupting their argument.
Both kids looked at him like he'd offered gold bars. "You have Coke?" Carl asked.
"Fridge in the corner. Grab one if you want."
Carl was across the garage in seconds. Came back with two cans, handed one to Lip. They cracked them open simultaneously and drank like they'd been hiking through a desert.
"Thanks," Lip said eventually.
"No problem."
Carl finished his Coke in four long swallows, then set the empty can on the workbench with exaggerated care. His eyes locked onto a screwdriver—the good one, German-made, expensive.
"Don't," Ben said.
Carl's hand, which had been drifting toward the screwdriver, froze. "I wasn't—"
"You were absolutely going to pocket that."
Carl's grin was pure mischief. "Maybe."
"Put it back."
"It's still on the bench."
"Put back the socket set you grabbed while I was getting Cokes."
Both Lip and Carl froze. Lip looked at his brother with something approaching awe. Carl's eyes widened.
"How'd you know?" Carl asked.
"I pay attention."
Carl slowly pulled the socket set from inside his jacket and set it on the workbench. He wasn't embarrassed—if anything, he looked impressed.
"You used to steal stuff, didn't you?" Carl asked.
"None of your business."
"That's a yes." Carl's respect was obvious. "Cool. You're way cooler than Steve."
"Who's Steve?" Ben asked, though he knew.
"Fiona's boyfriend," Lip said, his voice carrying layers of contempt. "Rich asshole pretending to be normal. Drives different cars every week, acts like he's one of us. It's pathetic."
"Maybe he is one of us," Carl offered.
"He's not."
They finished their Cokes and eventually left, Lip reminding Ben about the laptop, Carl asking one more time about explosives before his brother dragged him away.
Ben stood in his garage after they'd gone, feeling the full weight of what he'd just done. He'd planted a seed with Lip—college, potential, the possibility of escape. Had handled Carl's petty theft without judgment, creating a connection.
Every interference creates ripples I can't control.
The thought was familiar now, a constant companion. He'd helped Fiona, engaged with her brothers, inserted himself into their lives in small but meaningful ways. And each interaction changed the story, altered the timeline he'd memorized.
The question was whether he was helping them toward a better future or steering them toward different disasters he couldn't foresee.
Ben didn't have an answer. But he kept moving forward anyway, because standing still felt like abandonment.
He went back to the laptop, actually attempting the repair this time. If Lip was coming back Thursday, he'd better have something to show for it.
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