Page 147 of The Rom-Commers

People started turning around to look at me. Children started pointing. A teenager lifted her phone and took a video. Andno oneoffered to help.

Not that there was any help to offer.

This was the real world. This wasn’t some Richard Scarry picture book of police dogs riding motorcycles. Mister Rogers wasn’t going to step out from behind a kiosk with his zippered cardigan and help me out.

I already knew how this would end.

I’d miss my flight. No one would care. And all that perky, chirpy, optimism-themed nonsense I’d always clung to would come back to bite me in my contemptibly naive ass.

BY THE TIMEI made it to the ID check, my diaphragm was absolutely spasming with sobs. Still, I stepped up to the booth at my turn—still barefoot—and slid my ID through the window. A lady agent picked it up and peered at it. Then she peered at me. Then she grabbed her handheld radio, pressed a button, and said into the receiver, “TSA to command. Requesting the supervisor.”

Oh, no. No, no. I didn’t have time for a supervisor. Was my license expired? Had I broken some unknown rule? Was sobbing in the TSA line a security red flag?

“I’m sorry—” I started, but she held up a finger to quiet me.

Was I in trouble?

I didn’t have room for any more trouble today. I was over capacity as it was.

A stocky Black TSA officer with no-nonsense dad energy showed up, and the agent held out my ID for him to inspect.

“Emma Wheeler?” he asked, comparing me to the license photo. “Flight 2401 to Houston?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I’m the supervisor. Please come with me.”

“Sir, I’m—I’m very late for my flight. They’re taking off any minute—”

But he was already walking away.

I had no choice but to follow, my bare feet slapping along the industrial floor and the squealing wheels of my carry-on bewailing our plight.

We rounded the mosh pit of travelers, and he took me to a room with anAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLYsign.

This couldn’t be good.

I’d managed to snuff out my active bawling on the walk over, but now I wondered if I’d have to start up again. Had things just gone from bad to worse?

But once we stepped inside, I saw a bag scanner there, with a female agent standing at attention behind it. Once the supervisor closed the door behind me, he put my carry-on on the conveyor belt. Then he ushered me to stand on a spot marked with two footprints, requested I hold my arms out, and while he checked me with the wand, said, “We got a call from Southwest. The pilot’s holding your plane.”

Did I just hear that? “He’s—what?”

The supervisor did not choose to help me with my verbal double take. He went on, “But he can’t hold it long. No longer than time he can make up in-flight.”

I was still back at: “The pilot is holding the plane?”

“So once you’re clear,” he went on, “I’m going to need you to run to the gate.”

Run to the gate?My brain tried to catch up.

“Got it?” he asked, standing straight to meet my eyes. “When I say run, I mean ‘sprint.’”

I wasn’t sure. But I said, “Sprint. Got it.”

“It’s Gate 30, at the farthest end of the concourse,” he said. “So I hope you’re in shape.”

“I hope I am, too,” I said.

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