That Saturday, as the chandelier rose toward the ceiling and the house lights dimmed to a warm amber, Leo looked over at her. Evelyn wasn't looking at him; she was leaning forward, a girl again, waiting for the magic to start.

The lights were still up at the Majestic, but for Leo, the show had already begun. He wasn’t there for a performance; he was there for a mission.

"Two for the Saturday matinee," Leo told the box office teller, his voice echoing in the marble lobby. "Center orchestra. Close enough to see the sweat on the actors' brows."

His grandmother, Evelyn, had spent her youth in the nosebleeds of every theater in the city, but she hadn’t seen a live show in a decade. For her 80th birthday, a sweater wouldn't do. It had to be the velvet seats, the smell of floor wax and old perfume, and the swell of an orchestra.

The teller handed over the thick, gold-embossed cardstock. Holding them felt like holding a secret.