PreCheck meant metal detectors and civility rather than body scans and hostility. PreCheck meant less of a chance of a pat-down, or of his male agent asking loudly whether he wouldn’t prefer a woman. In short, PreCheck was a way to pay for dignity, and Graham had been … not happy, exactly, to do it, but relieved when his Known Traveler Number came through.

When I fly, I’m almost always flying with Graham, or on my way to meet him and fly somewhere else. Signing up for the service, borderline predatory as it is, only made sense. And normally, it meant we could cut our airport arrivals a little closer, since there was never as much of a line. Not so, today.

One of the canine units cruised by, ears swiveling toward the slightest sound. Graham tightened his grip on my hand. We kept walking.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was loud, assertive, and authoritarian: it was the voice of someone who didn’t expect to be ignored. Graham and looked behind us. The agent attached to the canine unit was eyeing us. So was the canine unit. It looked as suspicious as I think it’s possible for a dog to look, muzzle up, eyes alert, ears slicked back against its head.

“Yes, officer?” I said, letting go of Graham to turn.

“I need you to come with me.”

It took everything I had not to turn to Graham in terror. I’d been hoping for some confirmation of whether these were my people, finally coming to collect me after leaving me adrift in a sea of humans for thirty years. This wasn’t how I’d wanted to receive it.

“Is there a problem, officer?” asked Graham, mirroring my turn. We couldn’t hold hands anymore, thanks to our carry-ons, but I still felt better knowing that he was with me, that he would be with me no matter what.

“Routine security screening,” said the officer. “This young lady has been randomly selected. You can continue.”

“Is it okay if I don’t?” Graham leaned forward and whispered, almost conspiratorially, “That line is incredibly long, and I know my girlfriend will pass whatever screening you’re planning to perform with flying colors. If I can come with her, maybe we can still catch our plane.”

“We both have PreCheck,” I added, possibly nonsensically.

The officer frowned before nodding and saying, “We’re allowed to screen as many passengers as we feel necessary to preserve the safety of this airport. Come with me, please.”

It felt like the whole line turned to stare at us as we followed the security officer, and the still-serious dog, away. I squared my shoulders and kept my chin up, reminding myself that I would never see any of these people again. None of them mattered. None of them were ever going to have the opportunity to matter.

I just had to get to Maine.

2.