“What does it feel like to die?” he asks, his breath hot and frayed, and I know what he really wants—to hear what it would have been like if he’d died, to know what happened to the boys he fought alongside and the boys he fought against, the ones who never made it to California or to anywhere else except the inside of a zippered-up body bag.

I should lie to him. Pretend it was nothing, pretend it was like falling asleep. I tell him the truth instead.

“It’s cold,” I whisper. “And slow. So much slower than you’d expect. Time just stops, and you’re standing both inside and outside of yourself.”

His fingertips slide carefully down my body. “Were you afraid?”

“Every damn time.”

Michael hesitates, inspecting my face in the dark. “How many times have you died?”

“Too many to count.”

Enough that I don’t want to count. And I don’t want to remember, either. I draw him toward me and flick at the buttons on his shirt, popping them open one by one.

“This way,” he whispers, disappearing into a narrow bedroom at the end of the hall.

I stand here, frozen. It would be so easy to follow him. Just a few more steps, and we’ll be together. He’ll give me whatever I want, even if I ask for everything.

And that’s exactly what I need from him. If I walk into that room, he won’t ever walk out again.

I’m back outside in an instant, my knees weak, Michael calling out my name. I try not to listen.

My head spinning with hunger, I stagger across the gravel lot until I’m suddenly leaning against the doorway of the projection booth. It’s a tiny shack built of peeling cinder blocks, junk piled along every wall. Rolled-up posters from long-forgotten movies moldering in corners. Stacks of metal tins filled with nitrate film stock.

Cigar stub in hand, Walter peers out at me. “The heart of every theater,” he says, the projectors whirring softly behind him. “This is where it all happens.”

And where nothing will happen now.

I peer at him, his face craggy as a lunar landscape. “I’m sad to hear about this place closing.”

A sudden flicker of despair in his eyes, even as he waves me off. “None of that now. Don’t want nobody feeling sorry for me.”

“Maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself.” I’ve loved this place, found solace here, and soon it will be gone. Just one more ghost blighting the landscape of Hollywood.

Walter takes a long drag off his cigar. “I’m happy you came back tonight,” he says. “My grandson’s very fond of you.”

My guts twist. “That’s a shame.”

“Why?” he asks, one gray eyebrow twitching up. “Are you going steady with someone else?”

I cough up a jagged laugh. “You could say that.”