And that I might realistically die before I could find her, and still be unable to communicate with her in whatever followed my time in this life.

It sounded like Mrs. Robinson was making clucking noises and smacking her lips together on the other end of the call as she tried to figure out how to reply to me. “Hmm… She’s not gone. Can’t be gone.”

I exhaled in relief so powerfully that I fell over on my back across my bed. Jennie wasn’t gone. I didn’t want to know how Mrs. Robinson could be so sure; I figured she knew about all the places where souls might end up just like I knew what radio static sounded like when someone’s spirit was trying to contact me through it. As long as Jennie was somewhere, I could hang on to hope.

“Do you think the spirits did something bad to her?” I asked.

“No, they can’t harm her. But they can block the channel between the two of you. I imagine that’s probably what’s happening—they’re just causing interference.”

I imagined Jennie in “the dark place,” and couldn’t help but think of her as being vulnerable there, wherever “there” was. The thought of her connection to me being blocked—especially in light of how happy I’d been to finally be able to communicate with her again after eight long years—was enough to bring a lump to my throat. But I couldn’t cry; not then, not until I had some kind of plan in place to fix things. “Can you tell me how to get this evil out of Mischa, and what to do with it once it’s out?”

“You need to get yourself a bottle or a jar,” she informed me. “Now, that’s for the last part, but there’s no point in doing all the other stuff if you don’t have something good to capture them in. Something that can be sealed off with a cork or a tight lid.”

Mrs. Robinson went on to explain exactly what I’d have to do once I had both Mischa and the bait in the same place. As she rattled off directions, I took notes on a piece of paper and wondered just how the hell I was ever going to pull this off—in public, no less, with my entire community in attendance.

“Don’t forget the drums,” Mrs. Robinson reminded me after I thanked her for her guidance. “It may not seem important, but loa can’t resist a strong beat!”

Drums. Right. Mrs. Robinson gave me the phone number for her room so that I wouldn’t have to reach her through the assisted living facility front desk anymore, and I added it to the contacts list in my phone. She assured me that she’d work on trying to reestablish my connection to Jennie but encouraged me to collect all of the items I’d need and not leave any until the last second. “Things have a way of disappearing out of the blue when you need them most for magic work,” she mused.