"Move your stroller—now!" I yank the carrier through the security line and the woman behind me curses like she owns the terminal. Jett pounds his tiny fists against the plastic hood and yells, "Mom, that's Daddy!" "Not now," I say. My voice is calm. Too calm. "Is that your kid?" a TSA agent asks, blocking my path with an official look. "Yes," I say. I lift Jett so the agent can see his face. He grins and points at a video game sticker on his shoe. "See? I'm five." The agent shrugs as if I asked for proof of tax payment. "Bags on the belt." "One moment." I set Jett down, lock the carrier release with a practiced motion, toss my backpack onto the conveyor, and step into the scanning booth. My hands are steady. My pulse is steady. Everything else is not. "Next," the agent says. He eyes me for a second too long. "You're traveling alone with a child?" "Solo," I say. "Where's the father?" "On a business trip," I say. Short answers. No story. No past. Jett talks nonstop. "I saw a man with a suit. He had a big face in the newspaper. He looked like Daddy. He had shiny rings." "Keep it down," I hiss, too low for strangers to hear. The line moves; people push and sigh. Someone launches a vape cloud. A mother behind me drops a phone and it skitters under a bench. "Excuse me," a man