The first “agent” hooks his arm around the back of his chair. He’s grinning at his cohorts. “Did you hear that, boys? She wants to talk to the boss.”
“She’d like that, wouldn’t she?”
I don’t understand the joke. I definitely don’t appreciate it. But I’m losing steam as the old, familiar fear starts to squeeze my throat closed.
Their voices are coming from every direction now. The room is blurring before my eyes, and I inhale and exhale deeply, trying to clear my vision. Panic is taking over. In a second, my vision will narrow to pinpricks. I’ll be bent over, gasping for breath. I won’t stand a chance against whatever these agents—if they even work for the TSA—have planned.
“I’ll call the—the p-police.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket.
As soon as the screen flickers on, it’s gone
