moved in fits and starts, with the steady beep of the scanners and the clatter of gray plastic bins.
We were only a few people from the checkpoint when Dad stopped, took out his passport, and tucked it carefully into his jacket pocket.
It took him maybe five seconds.
But the man behind us let out a long, loud, irritated sigh.
He was about forty-five, in a charcoal quarter-zip and white sneakers, with the kind of carefully tousled hair that takes time.
His name, I would learn, was Chad Hollenbeck, and he was a regional sales director for something that involved the word “solutions.”
A gold Rolex flashed on his wrist as he checked his phone for the fourth time in a minute.
Beside him stood his wife, a thin blonde named Mindy, in a cream wool wrap, with a tan Hermès Birkin over one shoulder and a gold Cartier
