His attention rested on them while theirs attended to the drama. Wino and Cheryl exchanged glances. They made their way past the couch, sharing in a communal pool of disapproval.

***

Later that evening, Wino’s bedroom door slid open. He curiously stuck his head out. Cheryl sat on the bed behind him. He scanned the living room. The mating calls of cicadas among other tree critters provided that orchestral ambience that heralded the evening calm. Wino moved out into the space. Cheryl audibly plopped off the bed behind him. He flicked on the living room light.

Crumbs and junk littered throughout the space. At least the TV was off, but that’s probably because of the automatic power-saving feature, not because Ibrahim actually turned it off when he and his accomplices migrated from Wino’s room to god-knows-where. He might have left a while ago, but nobody had heard him. The girls had also left, but their takeout remained, and the place reeked of rapidly rotting remains. Cheryl scanned the area while Wino glared at the mess. His hands rose to his hips and he let out a huff. Cheryl stopped between the couch and the table.

She showed that not-really-smiling smile and sarcastically suggested, “Looks like you guys might need to have another talk.”

Wino started out low. “Oh, I’m gonna have more than just a talk with him.”

“To be fair, it’s not your fault. Remember, I came in the room and­–”

"Yeah. And I’m gonna shove my foot where the sun don’t shine so that he can hear me."

“I don’t think he understands that.”

“Well, I’ll get him a translator.”

Cheryl scoffed to Wino’s rant.

"I mean, seriously, look at this mess. Does he expect me to clean this up?" Wino retrieved speckles of trash. He grumbled under his breath.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Cheryl protested, “What’re you­–? Let him pick it up. He and his friends made this mess. You can’t pick it up for him or you’ll just encourage him.”

“You don’t know him. This’ll never get cleaned up.”

Wino crumbled the trays between his fingers and threw them into the bag marked with ember Chinese calligraphy. Cheryl reluctantly followed his lead. Together, they tidied the room.

***

The next morning, Cheryl groggily emerged from Wino’s bedroom. She wore one of his oversized shirts, one that would have been large even on his torso, and petite shorts. Stepping up to the dining table, Cheryl paused.

“Ibrahim didn’t come back last night?”

The blanket remained folded on the couch facing the entry door. The mess they cleaned up sat packaged in grocery bags along the front door – a signal to you-know-who-probably-doesn’t-care that they had to clean up after him. Finally, Ibrahim’s wand was nowhere to be found. The two analyzed the room, meeting at the end.

Cheryl mumbled, “Do y’know where he is?”

Wino simply shook his head nope. It was not like Ibrahim to even leave the apartment. One thing about someone who never evacuates their residence is that when they do leave, the options are limitless and the evidence too scant to predict just where they’ve departed to. With Ibrahim’s character, his magic wand, and presence of the Witch, the only conclusion Wino drew was that it couldn’t be good for either of them.

***

Inside the downtown skyscrapers, papers were filed, pens clicked, and millions of dollars’ worth of services were provided. In the office room, a manila folder flapped open. In it, documents spilled over the dark wood grain of an office meeting table. The documents listed names, ID numbers, photos, and performance records among other things for a number of operatives. Atop each document read Police Records. Just below read: For Internal Use Only.

The Witch inquired, “Well? What do you think?”

She peered down at Ibrahim from over her shoulder. She swirled around to catch Ibrahim’s expression. Ibrahim tugged the first document over.

He read, “Car-men San-chez,” and tossed it back onto the table. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

The Witch smirked. She peeled the top file from the stack. Sarcastically, she started, “This is called a file. And what you do with it is you’re supposed to read it and–”

Ibrahim impatiently smacked his lips and swatted papers across the table. She toyed with his intelligence.

“Don’t joke with me. I’m a real magician. If you want something done, just point and shoot. I’ll hand the rest.”

The Witch huffed, spinning the information side towards her. “Alright, no judgment. Since some of us can’t read, I’ll read it to you. ' Carmen Sanchez, age 29, born in Cotswell–”