Souvenir


Robert, near the end of his radiation scanner shift, began to sweat as the bag came into view.

He looked around. No one odd, shifty, or seemingly in a hurry. He hit the button, and within seconds, two supervisors were looking over his shoulder.

“Mother of God. Is that an unexploded shell?” AnnMarie whispered. “Let it through. Be easy, there, Bubba.” Bubba, a chiseled six-four, gingerly picked up the bag.

A man reached out. “My souvenir. Than…”

“Uhn-uh, Sir. This way please,” Bubba said, as two agents helped the man to the consultation room. “Souvenir. Are you fucking kidding me?”

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