Arthur let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. "I'll pay whatever. Credit card?"
He expected the standard automated woman’s voice. Please press one for tickets. Please press two for refunds. He expected the shrill noise of a fax machine.
"It's here," Arthur breathed. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. His hands trembled slightly as he typed in the digits. 212-555-0199. telecharge phone number
The line went dead.
“Transaction complete,” the voice said. “Tickets are waiting at will-call. Do not dial again.” Arthur let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding
“Inventory check,” the voice replied. There was no sound of typing, only a low, humming vibration that seemed to come through the phone’s speaker and rattle the fillings in Arthur’s teeth. “Two seats available. Stage left, row A. The price is non-negotiable.”
Arthur’s finger stopped. Buried under a flyer for a garage sale and a card for a dog walker was a corner of electric blue paper. Only three numbers were visible, but the font was unmistakable—a jagged, digital scrawl. Please press one for tickets
Gabe’s eyes widened. "Don't do it, man. Memories are all we have. It's just a play."