Chapter 3 - The Checkpoint
The TSA checkpoint at John Glenn is a well-oiled machine of gray bins, conveyor belts, and tired agents.
As we approached the X-ray scanners, Mark’s nervous energy spiked into overdrive. He was sweating now, a fine sheen across his forehead. He practically shoved me toward the shortest line.
"You go first, Diane," he insisted, his voice tight. "I'll handle the bins. Just get through the scanner."
He wanted me to go first. He wanted to be standing safely behind the metal detector when the agents inevitably pulled my bag aside. He wanted the physical distance to claim ignorance when the authorities asked me what was inside the black Samsonite.
"Okay," I said obediently.
I walked through the body scanner. I stepped out, collected my shoes, and waited at the end of the conveyor belt.
My black Samsonite rolled out of the X-ray machine.
Clean. Unflagged.
I pulled it off the belt and looked back at Mark. His eyes widened. He stared at my suitcase, then up at the X-ray monitor, a look of profound, sickening confusion washing over his face. He patted his pockets as if he had somehow forgotten to pack the box.
Then, Dana’s beige leather tote went into the machine.
The conveyor belt abruptly stopped.
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The TSA agent staring at the monitor leaned in closely. He pressed a button, reversing the belt, running the tote back through. Then he stood up, waving a gloved hand toward a supervisor.
"Ma'am," the agent said, looking directly at Dana. "Is this your bag?"
