The officer showed us to a small, square room equipped with its own miniature X-ray belt. The door swung shut behind us with an ominous “click.” Graham and I exchanged a look.

“I would check to see if it just locked itself, but I don’t think I need to, and I’m pretty sure we’re on camera,” he said. “If the sound ‘accidentally’ cut out, it would look like I was trying to escape.”

“So let’s not do that,” I agreed. The TSA has improved since its inception, but they’re still a government agency, and they have more power to disappear people than I like to think about. If we pissed them off or drew too much attention to ourselves, missing our flight would be the least of our worries.

This was what happened after a single confirmed alien signal was reported to the public. What would happen when the ships arrived? When the invasion began? There was no coming in peace, not when people were so eager to give in to fear. There was coming in aggression, or there was staying a safe distance away, abandoning me and the others like me to whatever this planet had in store for traitors.

A door on the far side of the room swung open. Three more guards stepped through. One of them had another canine unit, holding tight to its harness as it strained to reach me. Unlike the first canine unit, which had been a standard German shepherd, assistant to police and security forces everywhere, this one was a bloodhound, face framed by droopy ears and droopier skin, eyes sad among concealing folds. There was nothing sad about its nose, which twitched as it tested the air. It kept its focus on me.

The handler wasn’t moving fast enough for the dog. “Baroooo!” announced the bloodhound, voice too large for this small space. “Baroooooooo!”

“I didn’t think they were supposed to bark when they were working,” I said, swallowing the urge to take a step back, to put some distance between myself and the eager beast.

I’ve never been much of a dog person. They don’t care for me, and I don’t care for them, and as long as we give each other a wide berth, everything’s fine. Something about the way I smell upsets them. That was probably what was happening now, why the bloodhound looked ready to pull its handler clean off his feet in order to get to me.

The guard in the middle held up her tablet, swiped her finger across the screen, and asked, “Are you Anastasia Miller and Graham Fordham?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” said Graham. Neither of us offered any more information. That was never a good idea when dealing with law enforcement of any kind.