Borders

by Sarah Beebe

There are at least two babies crying. Feet shuffle, bags exhale as they’re set down. Hands check pockets, unveil tickets, wallets, passports. She has them, but she pulls the child closer. Her heart pounds. The terminal is dim, tired, but packed even at this hour. Lights buzz and tarpaulin jackets scratch against each other, salt and plastic and damp wool. The line—stiff, humid—compresses. She cannot see over the shoulders to know why the line stopped. The child clings to a doll, and the mother rubs their plastic passport photos. Security marches up the line; she lowers her head, averts her eyes. Again she fumbles for tickets. She has them. A guard orders her out of line.

They flee.