Then he saw who was sitting there.
His eyebrows went up.
The man said, slower this time, “You can sit there.”
He pointed again at the middle seat.
Like maybe I hadn’t understood him the first time.
Something in me clicked.
Not anger exactly.
More like certainty.
I had let the security-line thing go because one place in a queue wasn’t worth making a scene.
But now he was doing it again.
Taking what he wanted because he assumed I wouldn’t object.
So I smiled.
Then I answered in the most ordinary American English I could manage.
I said, “You’re not getting away with it this time. That’s your seat.”
He froze.
His eyes narrowed.
I continued. “The window seat is mine.”
Dad covered his mouth.
I knew he was trying not to laugh.
The man stared at me.
Then recognition started to appear.
Not all at once. Slowly.
First confusion. Then memory. Then horror.
