Nothing more.
Then a security supervisor hurried over.
He looked at Dad and froze.
“Thomas?”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
Within minutes, they were moving us out of the line.
“Dad, what’s happening?”
He wouldn’t answer.
The older pilot led us toward a restricted door.
Before he could open it, Dad grabbed his wrist.
“No.”
The pilot stopped.
“Sir, we can take you through the crew screening area.”
“I said no.”
Dad pointed back toward the checkpoint.
“We were in that line.”
The pilot nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then that’s where we’ll stay.”
“Dad,” I said, “what is going on?”
He ignored me.
The supervisor cleared his throat. “We’d be happy to escort you through.”
Dad shook his head.
“There are people ahead of me.”
“There are accommodations available for passengers who need assistance.”
“That’s different.”
Dad tapped his cane against the floor.
“Assistance is not the same thing as being treated as more important than everybody else.”
The older pilot lowered his eyes.
Then he looked back at Dad.
“The stories appear to be true, Sir. You haven’t changed.”
Dad gave a dry laugh.
“You might want to check your eyesight.”
The tension broke for everyone except me.
“Who are they?”
Dad pretended not to hear.
