It wasn’t the soft, polite beep you sometimes hear when someone forgets a watch or belt—it was loud, piercing, the kind that cuts through the air and forces every nearby conversation to stop mid-sentence. Heads turned instantly. A man a few steps behind us let out an annoyed sigh, while a woman nearby shifted her weight impatiently, clearly expecting a delay.
Lily froze in place as if the sound itself had pinned her there, her feet planted, her body rigid, her eyes wide with a kind of fear that didn’t match the situation—at least not yet.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly, stepping closer, forcing my voice into a calm I didn’t entirely feel. “It’s probably nothing.”
The TSA officer, a woman with sharp features and an expression that suggested she had seen everything and trusted very little, gestured for Lily to step back.
“Let’s try that again,” she said, her tone clipped but controlled.
