straight I’m right. Did you even—
—You’re not supposed to say that in here.
—Okay, Sawyer. My bad. Seriously though—
—And those weren’t Hasids.
Decker sucked in a breath. —I’m getting a tater tot kind of smell. Tortilla chips maybe. I’m guessing from the Taco Bell next door.
—Shut up and help me move these chairs around.
They cleared a space at the front of the room and laid their prayer mats on the stain-resistant carpet and cleansed themselves with water from a bottle. Decker’s prayer mat matched his tracksuit and his sneakers. Aden watched him for a moment, then shifted slightly to the left.
—How do you know that’s east, Sawyer? There’s no windows in here.
—It’s east.
He nodded dubiously. —We’re praying at the food court, basically.
—I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Decker. I’m going to go ahead and say the prayer we missed. What you decide to do is totally your call. Maybe your Mennonite’s waiting at the Taco Bell. Maybe you guys can split a quesarito scrambler.
—Is that what you think she was? A Mennonite?
She gave him no answer. Eventually he kicked off his high-tops and knelt next to her.
—That’s better, said Aden, prostrating herself.
—So long as you’re happy. I think this is south.
When they came out of the chapel their luggage was gone. They stood blinking wordlessly down at the carpet, listening to the crackle and hiss of the PA. She felt no panic, only a coldness mustering under her ribs. Her passport and visa had been in her duffel.
—Those motherfuckers, said Decker. —We were praying, for shit’s sake.
—It’s all right. It’s all right. We just need to find security. They can’t be far.
Decker let out a groan. —I bet it’s illegal, leaving bags around like that. Do you think they’ll—
—No I don’t. We were stupid, that’s all. I was stupid.
Lost Baggage was in another terminal altogether and by the time they’d found it both their shirts were dark with sweat. Its foyer was the same jaundiced blue as the chapel. The guard at the window knew what they’d come for before they said a word. Their passports lay facedown on the countertop in front of him.
—You kids might as well take it easy. No one’s flying anywhere today.
They waited for him to go on, wavering slightly in place, struggling to master their breathing. The guard looked down at them from on high, remote and unmoved, like a judge at some inconsequential trial. He took off his glasses and began to clean them with a wrinkled handkerchief. He seemed to consider the matter resolved.
—I’m not sure I understand you, sir, said Aden.
—Leaving two unmarked black duffel bags in the busiest part of the international terminal, right outside of the chapel. And a backpack. The guard shook his head. —Right next to the food court, for Jesus’ sake. Neither of you been in an airport before?
—I’ve been to this airport eighteen times, sir, not counting today. With my family. We live in Santa Rosa.
The guard squinted down at her passport for a time. —Aden Grace Sawyer, he said thoughtfully.
—That’s right.
—You’ve cut your hair since this passport was issued, Miss Sawyer.
—So what? said Decker.
—I wouldn’t of recognized you, the guard went on. —You look like a boy.
—We’re students, said Decker before she could answer. —We’re on our way to Pakistan for school.
The guard flipped through her passport with an elaborate show of disinterest. He seemed unsurprised to find its pages blank. —What kind of a school?
—A madrasa, said Aden.
—A what?
—It’s a religious school, said Decker. —Like a Catholic school, but for the study of the Holy Qur’an. It’s actually—
—Just do what you’re going to do to us, said Aden.
—Excuse me, Miss Sawyer? I’m not sure I heard you quite right.
—There’s nothing illegal in those bags. You’ve searched them already so you ought to know.
—I wouldn’t say nothing, Miss Sawyer. I wouldn’t say that. He lifted Decker’s duffel onto the counter. —Defense of the Muslim Lands, he said, bringing out a paperback without a cover. He brought out another. —Join the Caravan.
—Those are religious texts, she said. —They’re for our course of study.
—These books are on the State Department watchlist. They’re recruitment texts for militant jihad.
—We bought them from the campus bookstore of the University of California at Berkeley. There’s nothing illegal about having those books.
—Her father’s the dean of Middle Eastern studies, Decker cut in. —You know what a dean is?
—Tell your Arab friend to shut his mouth, said the guard.
This is what it means to live with open eyes, she thought. This place was here when I came with my father and we passed it by without even noticing. This same man sitting here at this same window. People stood where I’m standing but I never saw them. Where are those people now.
Decker was shouting something about freedom of religion.
—If you’re not going to give us our bags back, tell us, Aden said. —Tell us that and we’ll go.
The guard’s drawn and bloodless face regarded her through the window, so leached of human feeling that it barely seemed a face. The waiting area smelled of exhaust and toner cartridges and sweat. The noise of traffic carried in from the outside. He hears this all day, Aden said to herself. All day long he hears these sounds and breathes this air. No one ends up here by choice. Not even him.
—I never said you couldn’t have your bags, the guard said finally, shutting Aden’s passport with a shrug. —I don’t think you’ve heard a single word I told you.
By some undeserved miracle they reached the gate at final boarding call and were rushed aboard the plane like VIPs. People glared at them but she was used to worse. As they made their way up the aisle, disheveled and short of breath, a rush of jubilation overtook her. They were headed to Dubai and after that to Karachi and more of the faithful surrounded her than she’d ever seen outside a mosque. The plane would soon be airborne, a sovereign state, accountable to no laws but its own. Her country
