We’d walked out of that party together, and made out sloppy and happily drunk behind my dorm before going our separate ways, promising to try this again when we were sober. We had, and then we’d tried again to be sure we’d enjoyed it, and by the time we’d gotten around to try number three, we’d been pretty comfortable with the whole idea. We didn’t start dating right away—that had taken another year and a half, until Graham had started HRT and felt comfortable enough in his own skin to feel up to a full-time girlfriend—but we’d been together, one way or another, ever since.

The line at the airline check-in counter was short enough that I was relaxed when we started toward security, now free of our suitcases. We each had a carry-on bag, while I also had a purse stuffed with snacks, anti-nausea medication, and external batteries. Planes are supposedly equipped with outlets these days, but they’re broken about half the time, and even when they’re not, there’s always the risk of running into a seatmate who needs to take up more than their share of the plugs for “just a moment,” which always turns into the entire flight.

We came around the corner. The security line came into view. I stopped dead, astonished by the scope of it.

“It wasn’t like this in Florida,” said Graham, sounding as bemused as I felt.

It seemed impossible for the line to be this long, snaking past three visible checkpoints and extending down the length of the terminal, unless it hadn’t moved since the airport opened. There weren’t enough people flying to have created this sort of logjam. Even the TSA PreCheck line, normally a haven for businessmen and frequent travelers, was long enough to reach the end of the temporary corral constructed from rope lines and moveable barriers.

There were police everywhere I looked. Some were armed. Others were being towed along by serious-looking canines, the dogs with their noses pressed to the airport floor, the handlers with dour expressions on their faces.

“Something’s wrong,” I said.

“It’s all right,” said Graham. He slipped his hand back into mine, squeezing my fingers. I flashed him a grateful smile. He smiled back, looking only slightly strained, as we made for the PreCheck line. It was a frivolous expenditure on our part, and I don’t care for what it represents—Mandy calls the whole system yet another punishment for the poor, and she’s not wrong—but Graham signed up the second it became an option, choosing to pay a fee and submit to a background check rather than continue the humiliating, sometimes dangerous practice of going through normal security lines while trans.