Page 2 of All the way home

For a terrible, gut-twisting moment, Zach thinks he’s pointing out the obvious, as though he doesn’t trust the idiot who can’t keep hold of his belongings to know about security limitations.

But then Green Fleece jerks his chin toward Peacoat Boy and nudges his elbow with an easy familiarity and Zach realizes the statement wasn’t directed at him. “Don’t you have a water bottle with you?”

“It’s empty.” Peacoat Boy opens his messenger bag and removes his own, knocking on the side of it, making a low, hollow sound. He inclines his chin toward Zach. “So’s his.”

Then he smiles, and Zach’s stomach lurches. Why does he have to have such a nice smile?

The line shifts forward.

“See?” Peacoat Boy twists the lid off and turns to the girl next to him while Zach nearly snaps his neck in his effort to not be caught watching as he ducks under the line to scramble back to his abandoned carry-on. The girl Peacoat Boy is talking to has her arms folded over a gray Mount Royal University sweatshirt. She looks strikingly like Peacoat Boy, with the same sleek dark hair, high cheekbones, and elegant eyebrows. She surveys Peacoat Boy with deep disinterest until he feints as though he’s going to toss the contents of the water bottle in her face, and then she flinches.

“Don’t do that,” Mount Royal snaps, handing the TSA agent her boarding pass, which is how Zach realizes he’s been effectively distracted enough that they’ve finally made it to the front of the line without him noticing.

Palms sweating, his heart knocks up against his Adam’s apple. Firmly, he reminds himself that 41 percent of people who go through security find the process uncomfortable in some way or another, and they all manage just fine. This is not life or death. He’s checked his bag a half dozen times, and last time there were no secret smuggled—

No thinking about bombs.

Zach holds his breath, but the TSA agent scanning Mount Royal’s ticket does not appear to be able to read his mind.

Everything is going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

It doesn’t help to remind himself that there’s no reason to get this worked up. It never helps.

After placing their belongings in the bins, Green Fleece, Peacoat Boy, and Mount Royal step through the scanner one by one. Zach stumbles forward but manages not to drop anything as he loads his carry-on into one bin, everything else into two others, hoping desperately that none of them happen to turn back and see the duct tape running along the edge of the lid of his laptop.

When it’s his turn to walk through, the scanner beeps twice, shrill.

It’s a small miracle he manages to keep his stomach from falling out of his asshole.

The agent gestures for him to step aside. “Do you have any metal on you?”

Zach pats at his pockets, bewildered, alarm diffusing through him until the agent points at his wrist, looking almost bored.

He’s still wearing his watch.

“Shit. I mean—sorry.” His cheeks flare with heat as he fumbles with the clasp. “I forgot, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, her voice a dull monotone as she takes his watch from him and hands it over to the agent behind the computer.

Helplessly, Zach watches it go, a jolt of panic sending shockwaves rippling through his chest. That watch had been a gift from his sister, Tove. They wouldn’t really just take—

“You’ll get it back,” the agent tells him, then runs a hand over her short-cropped hair and waves him past. “Just wait for it.”

So Zach waits for it, vaguely aware of the trio packing up and walking away. Only when they have their backs to him does he allow his eyes to track them, lingering on Peacoat Boy’s shoulders.

Then the burly, broad-shouldered man behind him gives an impatient sniff and Zach realizes with a start that his bins have rolled through and are holding up the conveyor belt. He hauls his carry-on out and onto the ground, shoves his laptop back into his backpack, and snatches at his watch, moving so fast his hands shake. When he starts to put his watch back on, the man gives him some serious stink-eye, so Zach just shoves it into his pocket, then yanks his backpack out of the bin without realizing the zipper is still open.

A book—The Glass Universe, significantly the worse for wear with creases lining the spine and dog-eared pages—falls out onto the floor, followed by a balled-up pair of socks, a Ziploc bag with a squashed, tired ham sandwich, and approximately forty billion pens and highlighters.

At first, all Zach can do is stare at the mess, halfway to disbelief.

Then he ducks down, sweeps the pens into a pile, stuffs everything back into his bag, and drags it around the corner along with his carry-on.

Carefully, leaning against the wall and waiting for his heart rate to slow, Zach puts on his watch, fingers hovering over the engraving on the back of the case. Tove’s words for his high school graduation: Go get ’em, kid.

On this side of security, the floor-length windows are frosted over at the edges, though not so much that he can’t see the flurries blurring the outlines of planes out on the tarmac. Harried travelers stalk past him in every direction, several of them pointing to the screens on the wall as flight statuses update in real time. Anxious energy rolls through the terminal in waves, crackling against his skin. While Zach watches, four flight statuses change: winnipeg—delayed. vancouver—delayed. saskatoon—delayed. edmonton—delayed.

Fingers fumbling, he goes to check the weather, ignoring the way his pulse flutters in his fingertips, and realizes he’s getting a call.