Roke Alva

When Richard entered the living room, he immediately realized something was wrong. There was no guitar—it lay alone on the floor; no caustic comments like "Where the hell have you been?"; no light from the window—it was blocked by thick curtains. There was only Roque, sitting in a chair, his hand shielding his eyes.

"Is everything alright, Monsignor?" In the unusual silence, the young man's own voice seemed too loud.

“Quiet...” He said quietly, but irritably.

Richard glanced around the room again and realized: the marshal had a migraine.

"I can help, " Richard whispered, knowing that every extra sound would only intensify the pain.

"And how so? " The irritation in his voice was diluted with a drop of curiosity – what would the young man propose?

"Just trust me. Please? " He tiptoed up to the chair from behind.

Without thinking twice, Alva removes his hands from his eyes and throws his head back against the chair. Without opening his eyes, he replies: "I entrust myself into your hands, Okdell. It can't get any worse."