His words made me feel sicker than I had cleaning out the fridge. "Excuse me," I said, running to the bathroom. This time, I actually threw up.

As I choked into the toilet, spittle running down my chin, a voice above me said, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Gah!" I gasped, surprised to see that James had followed me into the bathroom. He stood just a few feet away, and I scrambled for some toilet paper to wipe up my face.

"You shouldn't do that," I said. There was anger in my voice, but it was mostly masking the terror I felt. I did not want this to be real. I did not want there to be an angel in my bathroom, watching me puke, and telling me that I needed to confront the Devil in the Underworld. But it was all real. And I really felt sick to my stomach.

"Can you give me a minute?" I said, feeling another wave of nausea.

James stood there.

"I meant out in the hall!" I snapped, and James finally seemed to get the point and stepped out.

I threw up only once more. The last few attempts were just a couple of dry heaves. By the time I left the bathroom, my insides hurt.

I found James sitting on the couch in the family room, reading a dusty paperback my mother had purchased years ago but had always been too busy to finish. His briefcase was sitting on the coffee table like a small square brown island.

I took a seat in an armchair, and looked over at James warily. He didn't look at me, just continued to read, giving me the space I needed.

We sat in silence together for a good five minutes, until I finally worked up the courage to ask him what his plan was.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, shutting the book. He looked sincere as he said, "I didn't mean to upset you. This is just... big stuff."

"I know," I said, rubbing my face. "The world could actually end. I get it. But I don't know how I'm supposed to do this. I'm... I'm just a teenager."

"I know I'm asking a lot," James said, "but I truly believe you are the best chance we have at ending this war."

"Why me?"

"Because you and the Devil made a deal."

"So?"

"It was different than Lana's usual deal. You didn't trade away your soul. You helped her. And now Lana owes you something in return."

For a moment, I felt a glimmer of hope. "Wait—can I just ask for Billy back? For my reward?"

I knew my idea was too good to be true when James shook his head. "That won't work," he said gently. "I've seen how Lana crafts her deals; I know the way she handles her loophole. If you try to do that, she definitely will not give you the boy. And it could shatter any trust the two of you have built between each other."

"I think she shattered that already," I mumbled, but James shook his head.

"That trust is why I think you are the only one who can stop all of this. You two formed a bond over the past few weeks."

"I honestly don't know that we did," I said, rubbing my face. "I can't tell what was real and what was her manipulating me to get what she wanted."

"Maybe it was real, maybe it wasn't. But that bond is the best chance we have. And I need you to exploit it."

"How?"

"You need to ask for a ticket to the Underworld for your reward. That will get you to her. Then, once you're down there, you must convince her to give Billy back." He said it like it was simple, but I knew it was anything but.

"This is the only way?" I asked.

"This is the only way I can think of."

I took a deep breath. "I'm not a big fan of this plan. But if you think it's the only way... I don't really have a choice do I?"

"Everyone has a choice. Free will—"

"Free will my ass," I muttered. "I can't just sit back as the Earth bursts into flames and watch everyone I know die a slow and painful death." I shook my head, trying to get the thought out of my head. "So, how do we contact the Devil to let her know I want a ticket?"

Now he finally reached for that briefcase. He unclipped the latches and flipped it open. Inside was a typewriter, but not the cute black ones you see hipsters using on Instagram. This was a hulking beige box with dingy white keys, something that someone might have thought was cool back in the 80s. Now it just looked like a heavy plastic paperweight.

"We can use this typewriter to contact Lana," James said.

For a moment, my brain whirred with an alternate possibility. "If this thing allows us to contact her, then can't I just message her and ask her to return Billy?"

James looked confused for a moment. "Don't you think it's better to talk to someone in person?"

"This is the 21st century. Texting is the primary mode of communication. It's nearly an art form at this point."

James shook his head. I had the distinct impression he was thinking something along the lines of Kids these days. But perhaps Humans these days would be more accurate.

"This typewriter has only enough power for one message and a single reply. Do you think that'd be enough to convince her?"

I wanted to argue, but I knew that even if I wrote an epic essay about why what she was doing was wrong, Lana wouldn't listen. It would just come out as an attack. James was right. This was something that required an actual in-person conversation.

"You couldn't have brought a magical telephone instead?"

"This was the best I can do," he said.

I sighed. "Okay, fine. But since we only get one chance at composing this, let's make a draft first."

After almost twenty minutes of ruthless editing on behalf of James, we settled on a brief message.

"Hi Lana," I typed slowly on the clunky keys. "I've decided that for my reward, I'd like a round-trip ticket so I can visit you in the Underworld. Please do not misinterpret this to mean that I'd like to die right now. I look forward to seeing you soon! ~Jessa"

I had insisted on asking for a round trip ticket, although James seemed skeptical that Lana would honor it if everything went to hell. Still, it gave me something to cling, a little shred of hope that I wasn't just asking to be sent to my death.

James re-read the message I typed out, then gestured to the typewriter. "Hit send."

I pushed the button per his instruction. I don't know what I expected to happen, but I certainly didn't expect the paper to burst into flame.

"Agh!" I gasped, scrambling away from the yellow fire engulfing the typewriter. I jolted up, about to run out of the living and grab a glass of water to put out the flames, but James beckoned me back into my seat with a cry of, "That was supposed to happen! It's fine! Sit down!"

I didn't entirely believe him and I remained standing, watching as the flames slowly died down, and then faded out entirely. Surprisingly, the typewriter looked no worse for the wear. Even the piece of paper I had written my note wasn't burnt to a crisp. However, the ink had vanished, replaced with tiny holes as if each individual letter had been laser cut out of the page.

I swallowed, sliding back down into my chair. "So she got it?"

"Hopefully," said James. "And now we just wait for a response."

We sat in silence for a moment, staring at the typewriter as if expecting an immediate reply. But this wasn't an iPhone. I couldn't tell if Lana had read the message or if she was typing a response or if our letter had even reached her. And the more I stared at the typewriter, the more my anxiety seemed to build in my stomach. You can't throw up again, I thought, but the queasiness wouldn't go away.

"James," I said, "I am terrified. Absolutely terrified." And suddenly I could feel my eyes stinging as tears threaten to spill out onto my cheeks. "I... I don't want to go alone. I don't know if I can."

James furrowed his brow, staring at the typewriter. "Your comment earlier, about a magic telephone... it gives me an idea. There might be a way for me to be with you while you journey to the Underworld—spiritually, at least."

Hope surged through my chest. "Really? How?"
He held up a hand. "I don't want to get your hopes up. It depends on if it's still there."

"Still where?" I asked, confused. "What are you talking about?"

He shook his head. "Sorry for being so vague. I think... I think it'd be easier to just show you." He held out his hand and helped me to my feet. "Let's go for a walk. Besides," he said, tilting his head towards the typewriter, "a watched typewriter never boils."

I didn't bother to correct him. "Where are we going?"

He gestured at the typewriter. "To the same place I got that thing."

I followed James outside, down the suburban tree-lined streets that whispered raspy melodies as we passed. The temperature had dropped sharply and I zipped my jacket higher up my neck.

I snuck a look at James as we walked. I wasn't sure what to make of him. He was awkward and strange, so unused to his human body that I couldn't be sure what he was really like. My initial impression was that he was nice and genuine—but then again, I had thought the same about Lana, and look where that had gotten us.

James led me all the way to Main Street, the same skinny road that Lana and I had traveled on the fateful day she had first told me her story. As we entered the main strip of town, we saw several young children in costumes wandering around with their parents.

James frowned at them. "Why are they dressed this way? Am I wearing the wrong thing?" he asked. "I don't entirely understand earthly fashion trends."

"It's Halloween," I explained. When James stared at my blankly, I clarified, "It's a holiday where kids dress up in costumes and get free candy. And you look fine. Just underdressed for the weather. Aren't you cold?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with that human emotion."

"Cold? It's not an emotion," I said. "It's..." I struggled with how to explain it, then glanced at his bare arms and the hairs standing on end. "It's that."

He looked down. "I guess I have been feeling uncomfortable. It's hard for me to sort out the precise cause with everything going on."

Tell me about it, I thought, then said, "I'll lend you a jacket when we get home."

He nodded, then stopped walking suddenly.

I paused. "What's wrong?"

"We're here."

I spun around, expecting to see something out of the ordinary: perhaps a street vendor with a cart of magical goods, or a mysterious figure in a long cloak. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. We were still just standing on Main Street, a few kids here and there laughing and skipping about dressed as witches and princesses and Power Rangers.

When I turned back to James, he wasn't looking at me. Instead, his eyes were locked on the storefront to our right.

I followed his gaze and my jaw dropped.

"You got the typewriter here? At the Christmas store?" Because that's where we were. The window looked exactly the same as when I had last seen it with Lana, with an artificial Christmas tree pressed against the glass and a yellow sign shouting "50% OFF!" in bold black Sharpie.

James took a moment to compose an answer. "Not exactly. Sort of. More like... it's complicated. Come on you'll see." He held the door open for me, and I walked inside.

As I stepped over the threshold, a shiver shot up my spine. Something in the air felt very strange, almost as if it were alive. And as the door banged shut behind me, I realized we were not inside the Christmas store at all.

I had been in the Christmas shop before; my dad collected a strange assortment of Christmas ornaments and sometimes I'd go with him to pick one out. Normally the store was crammed with fake evergreens and snow made out of glitter and smelled of stale cinnamon sticks. But this store was different. Wallpaper was peeling off the walls and nails jutted out of the floors, sticking up like the masts on a ship. The air smelled of must and damp wood. And old chairs and furniture were stacked in a chaotic jumble around the circumference of the room; I felt that if I made a single wrong move, they all might tumble to the ground and crush me.

But despite the chaos and squalor and confusion, the center of the room was neat and trim, with a long wooden counter. On top of this counter were items lined up in a careful row: a small emerald broach, a rusted fountain pen, a glittering silver sword... There were only about twenty items in total, all in various states of wear and tear, but they seemed to sing an otherworldly melody that both repulsed and enchanted me at the same time.

"Where are we?" I asked. My voice sounded far away, as if I was speaking underwater.

"A shop on the border of the worlds," James said, walking towards the center of the store.

I looked back at the shop door. Vaguely, out the window, I could still see Main Street and a few people walking by. "And it's here? In this Christmas store in Arlington?" I shook my head. "I've been here before and it didn't look like this."

"The store only appears to those who need it, bending space-time to be in the precise location it needs to be in. So we don't have to worry about any unwelcome visitors," James said, his eyes scanning the items on the counter.

I took a hesitant step forward. The air was practically thrumming; I didn't want to ruin anything. I put a tentative finger out, pointing at the items. "What are those things?"

"Objects."

I wanted to roll my eyes. "They're not just objects."

James looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw a little bit of a smile on his face. "Okay, you're right. They're special objects." He rested a hand on the counter. "When humans die, they leave their bodies and all their worldly possessions behind. Only their souls can enter Heaven... unless they have one of these items. Everything in here was forged at a boundary between realms, so they can be used in both worlds—or be used to send messages between them, like the typewriter."

"Who makes them?" I looked around the room, expecting to see a shopkeeper somewhere, but we were completely alone.

James shrugged. "There are things that even I don't know. All I know is that these items are here and that we have access to them. Which means they can help us on our journey."

I placed my hand on the counter, running it along the smooth glass as James continued to examine each item carefully, admiring the small tags attached to each. Halfway down the counter, my hand was drawn to a glittering silver sword. My finger brushed against the hilt, and I felt a rush of energy, warm and sweet, wash throughout my entire body. The anxiety I had been feeling all day seemed to melt away, replaced with calm. "Can I take this one with me?" I asked James, feeling almost numb with happiness.

James leaned in and looked at a small tag attached to the sword's hilt. In spindly handwriting, it said, "Heaven-Earth." "Sorry," James apologized. "This was forged at the Heaven-Earth boundary. It won't work where you're going. We need something that says 'Earth-Hell.'"

"Oh," I said. Disappointed, I let go of the sword, and the warmth drained out of me. Suddenly, I was back to my anxious old self. I glanced back towards the items, examining the tags and noticing a pattern. "I don't see any that say 'Heaven-Hell.'"

"That doesn't surprise me. Hell is Lana's realm, and Lana's punishment was to be separated from Heaven and God. It makes sense that there are no items forged at that boundary; it would be against God's will for an angel to make direct contact with her in Hell."

"That seems a little harsh..."

James shot me a look, and I shut my mouth.

James continued to scan the items with his eyes, occasionally looking at the tag to check where it was forged. However, he finally grinned as he approached the last item. "Aha!" he said, touching the small tag. "This is it!"

I hurried to his side, eager to see the item he had chosen. But I was disappointed when all I saw was a teddy bear, worn down and missing a single black eye.

"A stuffed animal?" I asked.

He picked it up and stroked the fur. "Not just that. It's what you said earlier: a telephone of sorts." He pointed to the little locket around the bear's neck. "I'll put a piece of my hair in the locket. Then, when you take the bear with you to the Underworld, I'll be able to talk to you and see through the bear's eyes—er, eye."

"And you're sure this will work?"

He looked at me. "Well, I've never used this particular item before. But if it's in this shop, then it should work." He glanced at the door. "Which reminds me. We should head out and check the typewriter to see if Lana has responded."

"Where do we.... pay?" I asked, though the words fell out of my throat. There was no one else in the shop. No shopkeeper or cash register or even a small can with "TIPS" scrawled on it.

"You don't pay here," James explained. "You just have to bring the stuff back when you're done with it."

"That's assuming I make it out of the Underworld."

James put a hand on my shoulder. I had a feeling he wanted to say something reassuring, but after a moment, his hand just fell away. Probably because he couldn't reassure me.

I sighed as we walked out, wishing that we had left with a sword instead of an old stuffed animal.