Then I make the mistake of looking back at all the people waiting, their impatient faces, counting down the seconds until their flight leaves, annoyed that I’m causing a stink about this. Because how dare a trans person ask to be treated with even just a bit of humanity? How dare I ask for just an ounce of respect in a fucking airport of all places? Do they think I’ve got an explosive in my crotch? Is that it? Am I going to blow up a plane with a cock bomb?

I pick one of the presumably male agents and stand wide as he pats me down, his hands getting too close to my crotch for comfort. Then he pats my chest, and I can feel his hand along my scars.

I want to disappear.

I want to vanish into thin air, never to be seen ever again.

This is so fucking humiliating.

In any other context I might be proud of the scars on my chest. I can remember not wanting to wear a shirt around the house for weeks after returning home—sure, it took some more courage to take my shirt off at the beach, or to walk to the mailbox without anything covering my chest. But now all I feel is shame. Even if the agent can’t possibly see the scars through my shirt, I feel them there.

“Okay, you’re good.”

I give him my most condescending smile. “You’re doing excellent work here, keeping our skies safe from the transgenders.”

He shakes his head. “Just get out of here, kid, before I call security.”

“Oh, so scary.”

I walk across the floor with my socked feet, slipping into my shoes easily.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Wyatt asks, his hands on my shoulder as if he’s trying to comfort me.

“It’s fine.” I’m probably being added to no-flight lists as we speak.

“That didn’t seem fine. We should find someone and complain about—”

“I said it’s fine, Fowler. Now drop it, please.”

“Neil, you should—”

“I should what? Further embarrass myself just to be told that I misunderstood and that what they did wasn’t transphobic as hell? That they were just ‘doing their job.’ I’ve been dealing with this for a while, Fowler—trust me when I say it isn’t worth it. I’m not going to change the entire TSA in the Charlotte airport at eight in the morning.” I pause. “Let’s just go.” I grab my bag and walk over to the large screen displaying our gates and times. “We’re 7319, right there. Gate A-24.” I point. Right on time too.

“Okay,” Wyatt whispers, as if he’s not allowed to talk anymore.

In silence, we make our way to the gate, which is already pretty crowded. We take some seats, and I lean back, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm myself down from what just happened.