Then we move to security. The line snakes back and forth, row after row of people who are too close together. Every time we make it around a corner, there’s just more people. When a rolling suitcase bumps against my calf, I have to tug on my hair to keep myself from screaming.

When we finally get to the metal detector, I narrow my eyes at it, a too-small box that may or may not sound an alarm when I step into it. I step back.

“No.”

Maria says, “Lou, this is standard procedure,” as if that matters.

I shake my head so fast it whips my hair across my face and stings. Standard procedure.

“No.”

The line builds up, and people start to file around us, like we’re rocks in a river.

A guy in a security outfit with a name tag that reads JORGE asks me to step aside.

Maria follows and says, “She’s with me. Child Protective Services.” She shows him her ID.

“Miss, if you won’t go through the metal detector, then we’ll have to do a personal check,” he says, and then before I can answer, he yells, “I need a female check over here!” I flinch.

A woman in the same blue security getup as Jorge walks up. She’s snapping on gloves, and my stomach flip-flops. What does she plan to do with those?

“Hi, honey. I’m Sheela. I’m going to be performing your security check.” I look at her through my curtain of hair. She sounds nice enough, but my eyes are on the gloves. If this is like the hospital, you don’t put on gloves unless you plan to touch a person. I’m not going to let her touch me.

“Here’s how it’s going to go. I will ask you to lift your arms at your sides.” She mimics lifting her arms at right angles to her body just like I had to do with Dr. Janson. “I’m going to use my hands”—she holds up her gloved hands like a magician—“and run them along your back, down your sides, and rib cage, right here.” She touches her own waist and runs her hands up under her armpits. I take a step back. No. No way am I letting her do that to me.

“Lou,” Maria says. “It’s this”—she points at Sheela—“or that”—she points at the giant black box. “If you refuse, we can’t fly.”

“Good.”

I watch her exhale slowly through her nose and smooth the black and gray strands that have escaped from her bun. She leans down then, so we are eye to eye. “Lou, do you understand that if I can’t get you to Nashville to stay with your aunt and uncle, you will be placed in the temporary custody of a foster family?”