Chapter 23: The Interrogation
The kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and the faint, greasy ghost of last night's pizza. Kyle stood in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, his brain short-circuiting in real time. Joaquin sat at the counter, the spiral notebook open in front of him.
"Oh no," Kyle said. It came out as a whisper.
Roha stepped in behind him, close enough that Kyle felt the warmth of his chest against his back. That didn't help. Nothing was going to help.
Joaquin looked up, slow and deliberate, the way he did when he was about to be insufferable. A grin spread across his face. "Kyle's Big Wish," he announced, tapping the page. "That's the title. That's literally the title."
Kyle made a sound. It wasn't a word. It was the noise a man makes when he's watching his own funeral.
"This is some interesting 'poetry' you wrote here, Kyle," Joaquin said, flipping a page with far too much drama. "Very evocative. Very... bullet-pointed."
"It's nothing. Give it back." Kyle stepped forward, hand outstretched.
Joaquin held the notebook aloft, already scanning the page. His eyebrows shot up. "Oh my god. Listen to this one. 'Roha gets a cool middle name.'" He clutched his chest. "Incredible. Truly the work of a tortured artist."
"Joaquin."
"'Roha's refrigerator always has emergency ice cream.'" Joaquin wheezed, slapping the arm of the chair. "Emergency ice cream, Kyle. Who hurt you?"
Kyle lunged. Joaquin saw it coming from a mile away, sidestepping with the grace of a man who'd spent years evading bouncers and exes. He vaulted over the back of the couch, landing on the cushions with the notebook held high like a trophy.
"Some of this stuff is straight up unhinged," Joaquin announced, flipping pages. "I've counted at least ten bullet points dedicated to Roha staying sexy. Just absolutely devoted to the cause."
Kyle made a grab for the book over the couch. Joaquin spun away, cackling.
"'Roha has permanent abs.'" Joaquin read in a singsong voice. "'Roha's pecs stay muscly. Roha's arms are always strong enough to lift Kyle.'"
The kitchen went quiet except for Joaquin's laughter. Kyle stood frozen, face burning, arm still extended uselessly over the couch cushions.
Joaquin looked up, grin so wide it nearly split his face. "Kyle, you thirsty boy. Are you aware of this, Roha? Blink twice if you need help."
Roha didn't blink. He didn't do anything. His face stayed perfectly still, like a statue that had been carved specifically to avoid answering that question.
Joaquin's grin widened. "Tough crowd."
He hopped off the couch, walked over, and dropped the notebook into Kyle's hands. The gesture was casual, almost gentle. Kyle clutched it like it was a live grenade.
"Seriously, though," Joaquin said, crossing his arms. "What is all that? And don't tell me poetry."
Kyle opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I'm just... trying to help Roha."
"Help with what, exactly?"
The kitchen air got thick. Roha swallowed hard. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He couldn't. The magic tethered to the lamp pulled at his tongue, a soft, invisible leash. Humans had murdered each other over the right to a make wishes. There was no version of this story that ended well if Joaquin knew the truth.
Kyle took a long breath. He looked at Roha, then back at Joaquin. His shoulders squared like he was about to jump off a cliff.
"I'll tell you," Kyle said. "But you have to promise to keep it a secret. Like, a real secret. Cross your heart, hope to die, all that."
Joaquin raised his hand in a solemn three-finger salute. "Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye."
"That's not the—"
"Just talk, dude."
Kyle took another breath. Then he just let it out, all of it, in a rush that tumbled over itself like a waterfall. Roha being a genie. The lamp in the alley. The first wish, drunk and stupid, asking for a friend to go clubbing with. The corn dog place, which wasn't a weird coincidence, it was a wish. The notebook, all those bullet points, that was the draft for the last wish. The one that would free Roha and give him a life.
Joaquin listened. He didn't interrupt. He leaned against the counter with his coffee mug, nodding along like Kyle was explaining a recipe. When Kyle finished, the kitchen went so quiet you could hear the fridge humming.
Then Joaquin sighed. Long and heavy, like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"You think I'm gonna buy such an obvious load of bullshit?" He shook his head, setting the mug down. "C'mon man, you're my bro. You don't need to lie to me."
Kyle blinked. "I'm not lying."
"Right. Genie. Lamp. Wishes." Joaquin's tone was gentle, almost pitying. "You really committed to this bit."
"It's not a bit!"
Joaquin turned to Roha, studying him with fresh eyes. Roha stood rigid by the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"You're not a citizen, are you?"
Roha just shook his head. One small motion, barely a movement at all.
Joaquin's face softened into something warm, something real. "Then your secret's safe with me, man. I'm not gonna ask questions, and I'm not gonna tell nobody."
Kyle opened his mouth. "Joaquin, I swear, it's not—"
"No, shut up." Joaquin held up a hand, turning his attention back to Roha. "You gotta forgive my boy here. He's an idiot."
"I'm not—"
"He's an idiot," Joaquin repeated, louder this time, "and the stuff in that notebook reeks of desperation. Like, you just met this man and he's already planning your whole life out like you're his wedding Pinterest board. That's a lot. I get it. But I promise he's a good guy and his heart's in the right place."
Kyle stood there with the notebook clutched to his chest, mouth half open, ready to argue. The words were right there. Roha is a genie. I'm not lying. He's from a lamp. I found him in an alley.
But then the gears turned. Slow, creaky, like a machine that hadn't been oiled in years. But they turned.
Joaquin didn't believe him. Joaquin thought it was a cover story, a ridiculous lie to hide the fact that Roha was undocumented, or on the run from something, or just some guy who needed a story to explain why he had no ID and no past. And because Joaquin thought that, he wasn't going to ask more questions. He wasn't going to push. He was going to protect Roha's "secret" with the fierce, transactional loyalty he gave to everyone he let into his orbit.
Kyle's mouth closed.
"Thanks, Joaquin," he said quietly.
Joaquin's grin returned, easy and warm. "Alright, look. My parents are stupidly well connected. Lawyers, fixers, the whole network. If you ever need help getting things in order, a visa, papers, whatever, you come to me. I'll make some calls."
Roha uncrossed his arms. "Thank you, Joaquin."
"Don't mention it." Joaquin waved it off, already turning toward the coffee maker. He grabbed a mug, poured himself a generous cup, and took a long, confident sip.
His eyes went wide. His cheeks puffed out. He spun toward the sink and spat the coffee out in a dramatic geyser, coughing and sputtering. "Dios mio! What is this, motor oil?"
Kyle snorted, doubling over with a laugh that turned into a wheeze. "Roha made it."
"I can tell." Joaquin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the mug like it had personally offended his ancestors. He tipped the rest down the drain. "You guys are animals."
Roha stood by the counter, watching the coffee disappear with a thoughtful expression. His jaw set. He was an ancient being who had watched empires fall, and he was going to learn how to brew a decent cup of coffee if it took him a century.
"Alright, boys." Joaquin clapped his hands together, already moving toward the hall. "Let's get showered. We're going out for breakfast. Real food, real coffee, no more crimes against caffeine."
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.
Kyle let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He looked at Roha, notebook still pressed against his chest. "That went... actually kind of okay?"
Roha's mouth twitched at the corner. "He thinks I need a visa."
"Better than him thinking you're an ancient wish-granting entity who accidentally created a corn dog restaurant."
Roha considered this. Nodded. "Marginally."