He asked for three more wishes, pleaded with the genie for nother chance. Swore that he’d made a mistake. He wanted to take them back.
He couldn’t answer the genie’s question, “What are you going to do with them?” Smoke like the chocolate tendrils of a giant squid embraced him, the smell of warm desert winds, the smell of forgotten spices.
The genie was gone.
He would have to solve his own problems.