“Well?” Quinn asks. “Shh. I’m thinking.” I sit and think about how much I want the door to open—how much I need it to open. It worked on the creaky door—suddenly, just because I was thinking about it, oil appeared. But nothing appears to help me with this. “Maybe we can climb in through the window,” Quinn says. I’m about to tell her no way—I’m a genie, not Spider-Man, and do you know how many people are killed each year trying to scale the sides of buildings?—when Trey’s door swings open. Out comes a woman in a maid’s uniform, carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies. “Excuse me, can you hold that?” Quinn asks. “This is Mr. Twendel’s room,” the maid tells her. “No unauthorized admittance.” She pulls the door shut behind her . . . but not before I whip by, quick as a wink, and squeeze in before it clicks shut. Now that I’m on the other side, I survey things. There’s one bed freshly made up with navy sheets and the puffiest comforter I’ve ever seen.
