Airline logos gleamed overhead—Delta, Southwest, United. We dashed past individual baggage check-in areas, each with their own conveyor belt systems and ticket kiosks. Each was roped off from the others. Customers herded themselves in, like sleepy, well-trained cattle.

Finally, we arrived at security.

For a quarter past three in the morning, security was impressive. The roped-off line was halfway full. Several security stations were manned, filtering people into one of many X-ray lines. These people were forced to empty their pockets, to remove their laptops from their bags, to take off their belts, and their shoes, and their dignity, and to put all this shit in plastic bins. Once a person’s bins made it through the X-rays and TSA had determined they were a non-terrorist, the poor bastards could have their things back. Everything except their dignity. TSA kept that in jars and fed it to their Demogorgon who lived downstairs in the airport TSA dungeon. These were the facts.

Holden, Imogen, and I shuffled to staggered halts. Our gazes zigzagged through the lines, scouring them for any sign of Roscoe.

Heavy footsteps clapped behind us, slowing to a stop. Frantic breathing. I didn’t have to look back to know it was Wynezra.

“Is he here?” she said. “Where is he?”

No one said anything. We were too busy scanning the lines for the second, third, fourth times over.

Not seeing Roscoe.

He wasn’t here. We missed him.

Eventually, our intense search petered out. Our gazes drifted uncomfortably. We continued to not say anything. What could we say? The disappointment was too big, and words were too small.

No.

It couldn’t end like this.

I refused to let it end like this.

“Holden,” I said. “Imogen. I need you two to create a diversion.”

“A diversion?” said Imogen, not liking the sound of this, not one bit.

“Wynonna and I are going to sneak through security.”

Wynezra’s eyes exploded in their sockets.

I looked directly at her. “If you want to, that is.”

“You do realize,” she said, calmly, “there’s a nine-out-of-ten chance we’re going to get arrested.”

“I know.”

Wynonna stared at me.

“Whaddaya say, Wynonna Jones. Are you ‘down to clown’?”

Wynezra’s mouth slithered into a great big devious smile. “I’ve been known to dabble in a little tomfoolery.”

She turned to Holden.

“Can we count on you, Jack Bauer?”

Holden’s eyes lit up with the fires of justice, and tactical espionage, and the explosions of every spy thriller he had ever seen. This was probably the single greatest moment of his life.

And then his entire face morphed into shock, and I realized he was already in a role because Holden had no concept of timing.

“TAYLOR SWIFT,” Holden screamed, pointing in the general vicinity of Delta. “OH MY GOD, EVERYBODY, IT’S TAYLOR SWIFT.”

“What?” Wynezra hissed. “Not right now—shit!”