 1. Roger Jr. knew three things. 1. He absolutely, unequivocally, was going to get Mr. Fluffy Paws back. 2. There was no way heaven was better than the pillow fort he'd made to be Mr. Fluffy Paws' new home. 3. He'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted by screaming and crying, and this was not going to be any different. He'd said as much to his parents this morning, though not quite in those words. The note he'd given them slipped under their bedroom door and accompanied by a loud kick. Head-red like this, I want Mr. Fluffy Paws. Mr. Fluffy Paws was the best cat ever. He was orange and white and soft and mine. Please give me back, Mr. Fluffy Paws. If you don't give Mr. Fluffy Paws back, I will take the neighbor's cat instead. Tommy and I trade cards sometimes, maybe God will trade cats. PS. Don't touch the pillow fort in the living room. It's for Mr. Fluffy Paws. Roger had kicked the door a second time, just to be sure his parents were awake and then gone back to his room. If he looked out the window just right, he could see the neighbor's cat when they let it out into the backyard. It was black, not orange, and its paws weren't nearly as fluffy. Though if he'd petted the cat, he'd have found the difference miniscule. Honey. Roger Sr. had said, after reading the note, should we warn the neighbors? Warn them about what? He's not going to do anything. For God's sake, Roger, he's seven. Roger Sr. frowned. She'd said that when the goldfish had died and look how that had turned out. Maybe we should have been a little clearer about this stuff when Senor Scales died. He said, Senor Scales, you're really gonna bring up the fish. We had to do that. She replied, Emma. He tried to light the couch on fire. Operative word being tried. Sometimes little boys are a lot. Honey, I was a little boy. When my goldfish died, I cried for a bit, and then we got ice cream. The saga of Senor Scales had lasted more than a week and ended with a brand new Senor Scales that now floated in a larger bowl in the living room. Roger Jr. had spent nearly four hours picking the fish out at Petco. It had to be exact. Somehow, his father knew the fight for Mr. Fluffy Paws would be worse. Let's just get him another cat. Emma said, turning away, throwing open the closet to get dressed. It's Saturday. We're off. Mr. Fluffy Paws was a tabby. How hard can that be? Roger Jr. heard no part of this, of course. His room was at the far end of the hall, and his parents, as ever, spoke of him in hushed tones. He was a force of nature and knew it, even though he didn't yet know what a force of nature was. He knew what he wanted. He knew he would get something similar if he pushed hard enough. Visions of Senor Scales Jr. flashed through his mind, superimposing themselves over the neighbor's cat as they let it out. Senor Scales Sr. had larger fins. He swam with more vigor. It had taken him days to notice that, but he still had. Mr. Fluffy Paws would be different. Already, Roger Jr. could see how the neighbor's cat behaved differently, moved differently. It didn't seem to meow nearly as often. When it waved its tail, the symbols it drew weren't definite enough. It didn't have… it didn't have… it didn't have it. Mr. Fluffy Paws had it. No other cat would. They'd all be like Senor Scales Jr., fakes, unfit to bear the name. No, what he needed wasn't the new cat he knew his parents would get him. He needed the old one. Exactly the old one. Roger shut his window loudly, kicked his parents' door again as he passed it, and with a kind of ductility only a seven-year-old could muster. He changed the three things he knew. One, he absolutely, unequivocally, was going to get Mr. Fluffy Paws back. Two, there was no way heaven was better than the pillow fort he'd made to be Mr. Fluffy Paws' new home. And three, heaven hadn't budged when Senor Scales died. Maybe hell would. Now, being seven years old and not even a very devout seven, Roger Jr. had little actual idea of hell. He'd heard the word, of course. He knew that he wasn't supposed to say it, but sometimes did. Knew that it was a place bad people went. He also, however, had watched a few episodes of Supernatural last week when grandma had fallen asleep on the couch and his parents weren't home. He'd seen how they talked about hell in hushed, frightened tones. It was a place with power. People made trades there. Like he and Tommy traded cards like he'd wanted to trade neighbor's cat. Heaven hadn't bargained for Senor Scales, though, and he tried. He'd prayed at least three times in between screaming and crying. Roger Jr. didn't know how to contact hell. He'd seen it done once on the show last week, but that had taken candles and a funny shape on the floor. He didn't have candles, but he did know where his parents hid the matches. He didn't remember what the shape was either, but maybe that wouldn't matter. It seemed like the important bits were the candles and the trade. Walking downstairs, Roger Jr. grabbed the matches, a piece of yellow construction paper, a Sharpie, and Senor Scales Jr.'s new larger bowl. Placing them all in the counter of his pillow fort, the one that Mr. Fluffypaw's absolutely would live in, he got down to the serious business of writing a letter to hell. Dear Mr. Devil, my cat Mr. Fluffypaw's died. Mom and dad will get me a fake Mr. Fluffypaw's just like the fakes in your scales. I don't want a fake. I want Mr. Fluffypaw's back. Please help me. Signed Roger Jr. P.S. I don't have a stamp. Please take this. Roger stared down at the note in satisfaction. It would work. It had to. Then, without so much as glancing at Senor Scales Jr., Roger grabbed the bowl and upended it. Dumping the flopping fish out onto the pillow fort's floor, he grabbed the matches next, tried and failed to strike one, tried and failed to strike a second, and then near to screaming succeeded on striking the third. He burned the note right there in the pillow fort, letting the ashes fall on the fish. He was going to get Mr. Fluffypaw's back. There would be no fakes this time, no fish with the wrong fins, no cats whose tails didn't make the right shapes. Hell was going to respond. They would respond, wouldn't they? They responded on the show. They totally would. They… A large man with ruby red skin poofed into existence across from him in the pillow fort. He wore a sharp pin-striped suit and had a long, thin tail that curled around one ankle, its triangular point flicking back and forth in the air. Kid, the man said, gesturing around the pillow fort. I've got no idea what in the hell you were thinking with all this, but that was the weirdest request we've gotten all week. You should see the big guy down there. I bet he's still laughing. The match burned low in Roger's hand, and he dropped it. It hissed out in the puddle on the floor. What? Cat got your tongue? Or is that the problem? That it doesn't anymore? No matter, kid, we'll fix you up right. The man leaned in, a smile splitting his face from pointed ear to pointed ear. Say, can I interest you? In a trade. Roger leaned in, too. The two most mismatched figures in the world separated by only a dead goldfish and some ashes. He could hear his parents moving around upstairs. A toilet flushed. His dad coughed once, loudly. How much time would he have? I want Mr. Fluffy Paws. Roger said. The neighbors have a cat, too. I'll give you that one. The man reached out and ruffled his hair. Cute. But no, that's not quite what a demon means when they say trade. Demon? The demon shrugged. Duh, what did you think he'd be dealing with? The devil himself? Truthfully, Roger didn't know what he thought he'd be dealing with. Ah, don't get nervous on me now, kid. Here, will this help? The demon snapped his fingers, poofing into a smoke cloud again, one that whirled and changed, and then pulled back in on itself. When it cleared, Roger was sitting across from a little boy in a faded baseball cap, wearing a Power Rangers t-shirt and those cool shorts that zipped on and off to become pants. Tommy, Roger exclaimed. But you're not. How did you do that? The demon smiled, lopsided just the way Tommy did, and his tail snaked out from behind him, a deck of cards wrapped up in its coils. He took the box in his hands, opening it, and then drawing the first five cards. I'm not Tommy, but you can call me that if you want. In my line of work, you've got to make the client comfortable, and you, my boy, are the client. So why don't you just go ahead and call me Tommy, and we'll work this thing out like you're used to. Demon Tommy snapped his fingers, and suddenly five cards lay face down in front of Roger. He picked them up, surveying his hand in amazement. From left to right, the cards' names read Roger Jr., Roger Sr., Emma, Descendants, and Deeds. The first four cards all had soul listed under their type. The last one, Deeds, was a magic card that felt more like a trap the longer Roger looked at it. It was strange seeing his face printed on a card, stranger still to see his parents' faces, and actual names. What does Descendants mean? Roger asked, frowning. Ah, good choice. So your mom and dad made you, and you one day, well, you might make someone else. Roger Jr., Jr., if you will. Descendants is whoever that is. It's like agreeing to trade the first card out of the next pack you open. Roger squinted at Demon Tommy. Mom and dad made me. Demon Tommy's eyes widened, and he put a hand up. Whoa, whoa, kid, let's just skip that one then, explaining that totally isn't my job. Roger nodded, considering the card. I don't like that. What if the first card in the next pack is a holographic? Then you've got to trade the holographic. You know how it is, though. The odds are always way better that it's a common. In a way, Descendants could be a really good deal. And hey, I'll let you in on a little secret. Demon Tommy's voice fell to a whisper. If Roger leaned over any farther, he thought he might fall, but he tried to eke out another degree or two anyway. So normally, when I make these deals, there's this thing called an exchange rate. In most negotiations, your Roger Jr. card would be your most valuable card, and all the others would have to trade two to one to get what you want. But you're a special kid. First off, you're cute, and you're the youngest person to put in a trade request in a good 100 years. And those are both working in your favor. And second, you're trying to trade for a cat. I mean, at the end of the day, no matter how good Mr. Fluffy Paws is, he's still a cat. Roger sat up straight, his gaze imperious, all traces of fun drained out of his face, do not insult Mr. Fluffy Paws. Okay, geez, I'm sure he's a great cat. I'm just saying that it's lucky for you as all, because today you're going to be able to trade your Roger Jr., your Descendants, or your Deeds card at a one to one rate. Unfortunately, your Roger Sr. and Emma cards need to be a package deal, since you can't negotiate for their full souls, seeing as you're just the heir, not the owner. Roger stared at his parents' pictures. He knew the photo they'd both been cropped from. It was their wedding day. His mom looked beautiful and so young, his dad was staring down into the right, where his mom would have been if she'd been on his card too. His dad's smile had never been that wide in all the years he could remember. He looked like he thought he was the luckiest guy on the planet. Roger took his parents' cards from his hand, laid them face down on the floor, and slid them behind himself. Not them. Okay, no worries, that still leaves you three. That left himself, Descendants, and Deeds. He didn't totally understand Descendants, though, but he didn't like the pack comparison. It made him nervous. What about Deeds? Ah, yes. Deeds. Well, that's a tricky one. Maybe the trickiest and the lot. If you give me that card, well, we'll meet again. At some point, I'll walk back into your life, and I will ask you to do something. And no matter what that thing is, you have to do it. It could be anything at all. Something as simple as egging a house, or as big as... He gestured down at Senor Scales Jr.'s body. Roger gulped and nodded. That one, he thought he understood. And if I offer you me, then you get Mr. Fluffypaws, and you have him until the day you die. However old that makes you both, he'll never leave your side. He'll always be the perfect pal with the fluffiest paws, and when you die, you get to come visit me in hell and be my pal forever. Can I bring Mr. Fluffypaws there? Demon Tommy shook his head. Sorry, kid. Pets don't go to hell, especially cats. Roger just nodded, staring down at his hand. He pulled descendants out, bringing it up close to his face, considering carefully, and then laid it face down, and slipped it behind himself to where his parents' cards sat. Why do you have five cards? He asked. Demon Tommy laughed, and laid them all on the ground face up. Every card said Mr. Fluffypaws, but not all of them were Mr. Fluffypaws exactly. The picture on the first card was him to a tee, those little white mittens, and the orange vibrant fur, a face begging to be squeezed and scratched just above the forehead like he liked. The second picture was nothing like him. It was a cat stripped down to nothing but bones, no fluff at all. The third, Mr. Fluffypaws, had a flaming tail. The fourth had scales rather than fur, and the fifth had no discernible difference, aside from a description, that read laser eyes. As you can see, Demon Tommy said, I aim to please. Hell offers several different aftermarket modifications. You can get any type of Mr. Fluffypaws you like. Roger couldn't choose. He really couldn't. His eyes darted back and forth between the laser eyes and the normal card. They lingered longingly on the fiery tail. Even the skeleton cat was fascinating. Not the scales, though. Senor Scales Jr. stared up at Roger reproachfully, and he didn't want the reminder. What if I want more than one? Roger asked. Ha, more than one. A man after my own heart, I say. Hell offers trade packages of all varieties. I see you're still holding two cards there, and since you've been such a bright spot in my morning, I'll make you a deal. You give me those two cards, and I'll give you two cats for the price of one on each card. What do you say, kid? Mr. Fluffypaws was such an amazing cat, the only thing that could possibly be better than one of him is four. Roger smiled gleefully, leaning forward again and pushing the weird, scaly Mr. Fluffypaws away from them. Four, Mr. Fluffypaws. Four, he hadn't even had one when he woke up this morning, just the neighbor's cat with a wrong tail, and a Senor Scales Jr. whose fins were too small, and parents who meant well, but never got him the right things. And a friend named Tommy, who made much, much worse trades than this one, and who couldn't have resurrected Mr. Fluffypaws no matter how hard he tried, though he would have tried and you all right, kid? Roger realized he'd forgotten to breathe. He slapped his last two cards down face up and pushed Roger Jr. and deeds over to demon Tommy. The demon snapped his fingers, and all four of the remaining Mr. Fluffypaws cards stood up on their own, folding themselves into little origami cats, and then walking over to him. And now we shake on it, demon Tommy said. Boy and demon extended their hands out towards each other. And as they touched, demon Tommy began morphing, smoke pouring off his body, as he once more became the man in the pinstriped suit. Remember kid, no take backsies. No take backsies. Roger said, staring in delight at the little origami cats prancing around him, the demon chuckled, breaking the handshake as he reached out to stroke one of their little heads. It purred loudly and nuzzled into him. You know, kid, I might come back to check in on you, even without the deeds. The demon gathered up the cards Roger had given him, slipping them into his sleeve. Roger looked behind himself, and the other three cards were gone. Only small piles of ash on the ground. You are going to have an interesting life. I look forward to seeing on how it develops. A stare creaked behind him, and Roger's head whipped around. His parents were coming. He turned back to the demon, and watched as the man began coming apart at the seams, flesh turning to thin black smoke and drifting away. Bye now, the demon said. Good luck. Roger. Roger Junior's mom called from the stairs. Are you down here? I smell something. Is something burning? Roger took one last look at his little origami cats, and ducked out of his pillow fort. Hey, Mom. Roger, honey, what's going on down here? It smells like something was burning, and hang on, honey. Why are you so wet? There's water all over the floor. It was true. Senor Scales Junior's bowl had been big. The carpet was soaked. And now that all the excitement had faded, Roger realized he was soaked as well. Mom, I can explain. Explain what? His dad asked as he came down the stairs behind her. All three turned, and saw Mr. Fluffy Paws walk out of the pillow fort. He shook himself once, almost like a dog would. And they could have sworn they heard the faintest crinkle of paper at the beginning of it. Another Mr. Fluffy Paws walked out, almost indistinguishable from the first, save for the bright red speck at the center of his eyes. Another Mr. Fluffy Paws walked out, and this one's tail was a roiling mass of orange and blue flame. The last Mr. Fluffy Paws walked out, each step emitting a strange clacking sound akin to high heeled shoes. It shook once, just like the first cat. And when it did, every bone in its bare body rattled. Roger's parents stared at him in shock, unable to say a single word. Mom, Dad, I can totally explain. The cats meowed in a discordant chorus, and across the room a vase exploded in a shower of sparks and ceramics. The red-eyed cat looked away sheepishly. Explanations might be harder than he thought.