Contraband

Getting it past the guards was easy. He put on his good suit, his lucky tie. He wore dark glasses to hide his eyes, smiled as he wished them good morning. He walked through the familiar rituals of the security check with the easy, slightly bored confidence of the professional traveller. No one gave him a second glance.

He couldn't fool the dogs though. One sniff at him and they knew just how much sadness he was carrying. And they barked and barked until he broke down and wept.

When they opened his suitcase they thought at first that he was a cross-dresser. Until he explained about her, about how she had died, about why he hadn't been able to leave her clothes behind.

They understood, they said. They were sorry. But there was nothing they could do. No charge on which they could hold him. He was free to go.