Still, he never stops grinning. “What can I do for you, Lucy?”

What I want isn’t on the menu, so I settle for ordering two medium Cokes and a popcorn, extra butter. Bee and I don’t need to eat—we don’t need much of anything—but going to the movies is all about make-believe, right?

His gnarled hands trembling, Walter fills two waxed cups with ice. “Glad you could make it out tonight,” he says. “Wednesdays are always slow around here. You know, just last week—”

And with that, he starts into his latest yarn about the patron who bought three boxes of Milk Duds and paid in pennies. I quiet my face, trying my best not to roll my eyes. Small talk. Why do people always make small talk? Sometimes it’s about the weather, sometimes a singer or television actor I’ve never heard of. Not that that means much. Perry Como is still modern to me.

As Walter chatters on, scooping yellow leavings from the bottom of the popcorn machine, I turn away, gazing out the smudged window in the lobby. Across the lot, Bee’s watching me from the Buick. She waves when she sees me looking, and I wave back, smiling.

Bee won’t come in here. She doesn’t like confined spaces, doesn’t like feeling trapped.

“Oh, did I tell you?” Walter nearly bursts toward me with excitement, his pulse surging. “My grandson Michael’s coming to visit. You remember, the one that just finished his tour overseas.”

I hesitate, something settling deep in my guts. “Of course,” I say. How could I not remember? Walter hasn’t stopped talking about his grandson ever since the draft notice landed in the mailbox like a grenade, shattering their lives into bits. This is the one bit of small talk I’d never deny him.

“He’ll be here tomorrow,” Walter continues, as I fork over a dollar, and he makes change, one careful nickel at a time. “I’ll be sure to introduce you to him.”

“If that’s what you want,” I say, even though I should tell him no. His grandson’s been at war, an ugly war, even uglier than most. He’s seen more death in two years than I’ve seen in two lifetimes. He doesn’t need to meet me, too.

Walter doesn’t understand that. When he looks at me, he sees what everyone else does: a perfectly fine young lady, red curls in her hair, red rouge on her cheeks. Never mind the dirt beneath her fingernails and the teeth that sharpen if you catch her on a bad night. He never seems to notice those things. Nobody does. That’s why I can hide in plain sight. Everything about me is a disguise.