The security guard's relentless stare quickened Cade's pulse.
He scooped his purchases up in the crook of his left arm, his wallet and change still clutched akwardly in his left hand, and struggled with the zipper of his bag with his right as he turned hastily away. Glancing around, he darted toward the departures board near the entrance.
He had just turned his gaze down to the stubborn zipper when he slammed into some unseen wall or pylon in the middle of the walkway. Everything dropped from his arms; the milk burst when it hit the concrete floor, the hairspray can clattered noisily and rolled dramatically across the gritty linoleum, and he himself bounced backward at an odd angle and through a grouping of chairs. The clamor echoed around the terminal. Heads turned. A child popped up from the floor on the far end of the waiting area and crept toward the commotion.
Slowly, Cade looked up into the eyes of the wall he had nearly concussed himself upon.
"Excuse me," it said. It was more of a shirtless man than a wall. The man looked at Cade, indifferent. He strode out of the building without offering a hand to help Cade up.