I’d taken him on flights before, always with the necessary paperwork, the vest, the tags. Airline staff had been accommodating, other passengers occasionally curious, but it was never more than a passing question or a smile.
That morning, though, I had no idea my patience—and my faith in people—would be tested more than it ever had been before.
The trouble started at Gate 47, where I found an empty chair near the boarding area. Max settled at my feet, his body pressed against my leg, as if sensing my nerves. Flying was always hard for me, and though I tried to look calm, my fingers twisted restlessly around the strap of his carrier.
A woman in a sharp business suit, probably mid-forties, took the seat across from me. She had immaculate hair pulled into a bun, heels that clicked like gunshots, and a phone pressed to her ear. She glanced down at Max, her lips curving in visible disapproval, before returning to her call.
