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he blue latex glove caught the cold fluorescent glare of Terminal 3 just before it dipped below the zipper track of my scuffed hard-shell carry-on. Officer Gregson shoved me back by the collar of my wool cardigan, forcing my heels against the stainless steel inspection rail with enough force to rattle the gray plastic bins lined up behind me. He did not ask for my boarding pass, nor did he ask whether I had packed my prescription inhaler and heart medication myself. His thumb stayed hooked inside my opened bag, pressing hard against the nylon lining while his eyes flicked toward the overhead security camera positioned twenty feet behind my shoulder.
"Step away from the table, Mr. Mercer," Gregson said, his voice flat, pitched just loud enough to turn heads in the pre-check lane. "Do not reach for your personal effects."