“I want to go to the movie theater with you. It’s on your bucket list, remember?”

This snaps him the rest of the way awake. “Is Moonlit Cinema open this late?”

“No.” I smile. “But you can bring the movie theater to us, can’t you?”

He grins back. Drinks in the sight of me slowly. I can tell he’s pleased that I’m taking initiative, inviting him on an unexpected adventure when he’s usually the one filling that role. “Yes. I think I could do that.”

Hall gives me a twirl. When I come to a stop, my outfit has transformed into a tea-length black dress embroidered with tiny gold beads, the hem of which he catches between two fingers as it flares. We both look at his hand, and he quickly lets the fabric go.

I admire his black suit, with a gold waistcoat and silver holly cuff links. “Nice,” I say with an appreciative whistle.

He bows at the waist. “I’ve got flair.”

The bedroom expands, ceiling pushing up, shape-shifting into a cavernous theater. He keeps on holding my hand as the room moves around us, every part of it in motion, window stretching until it’s swelled into a giant white screen between two deep red velvet curtains. A carpeted slope leads the way down aisles between chairs. Each light is the size of my fist, and upon a closer look, they’re each small white-blue moons. He miniaturized the moon, then copy-pasted it.

I scan the faraway ceiling, the film-projector window. A second Hall stands ready to operate it, waving down at us.

“Popcorn?” the Hall beside me asks, proffering an old-fashioned red-and-white striped bag.

“Please and thank you.”

We have the entire theater, of course, but after we treat ourselves to the seats in the center of the room, shadows begin to appear around us. Figures, setting the scene. When I watch them for too long, I notice that they ripple or glitch, features on some too murky to make out, while others are dim, grainy projections. Gregory Peck is seated next to Rita Hayworth. I hear Lucille Ball’s laugh. They’re suddenly everywhere, each one popping into being, milling about, settling in with coats and handbags. These are the same faces that hang on walls throughout the house with their names autographed in black slashes: Sidney Poitier, Frank Sinatra, Grace Kelly, Paul Newman, Rock Hudson, Sophia Loren. Grandma’s personal idols, silver-screen legends of old, larger than life, inspiring my awe since I was small.

The screen’s still blank. “What’s playing?” I whisper.

Hall leans in, our shoulders brushing. He hands me a ticket stub, and I tap two knuckles against my grin as I read it.

Of course.

He pops open our vintage bottles of Coke, moon-lights winking out as the screen roars to life. The projector click, click, clicks, spots and streaks blipping by in a succession of frames until the title card goes up. His Girl Friday. I have to tip my head all the way back to take it in.