Glycerine
The clock ticked, and Elsa’s stomach churned. They’d kept her in that dimly lit, 10-by-10 room for eighty-seven minutes, and no one had told her why. The room’s only door opened, and the same hatchet-faced young man who had initially ushered her into this same room entered.
He was wearing the same black polyester slacks, white short-sleeved shirt, and black clip-on tie sported by the Homeland Security employees who had kept Elsa from boarding her flight. His “uniform†differed from theirs in that it was free of insignia—no patches, no badges, no web-belt, no cuffs.
He stood there looking at her for a few moments. Elsa was too frightened to speak. Her stomach jumped again, so loud in her ears that she was sure he could hear it.