"It's brass and laminated paper, actually," Constance said. "The airline stopped making this version a long time ago. The reader may not recognize the surface, but the number is still in your system."
"The reader is for members."
For a moment Constance studied the young woman behind the desk. She had seen impatience in airline employees before; travel could turn an ordinary hour into ten urgent demands. This was different. The receptionist was not overwhelmed or frightened or uncertain about a complicated rule. She had decided the answer before asking the question, and the pleasure in her voice suggested she enjoyed defending that decision.
"May I speak with your manager?" Constance asked.
Evelyn straightened. "You are speaking with her. Evelyn Pierce, lounge manager."
"Then, Ms. Pierce, would you scan the card? It will settle the matter."
"I am not going to waste equipment time verifying something I can see with my own eyes." Evelyn leaned closer. "Here's what I notice. A coat from a charity shop and a card from a cereal box. You are looking for somewhere warm to sit, and you've chosen the wrong place."
Constance lowered her eyes to the coat. "You're looking at a coat," she said. "That's all."
Three nearby passengers had begun watching. One woman in a cream-colored suit glanced toward the open doorway as if checking whether someone would intervene. Nobody did. In the far corner, an employee carrying a tray stopped when she heard Evelyn's raised voice. Her name was Marisol Vega, and she already understood that the manager was making a mistake, even if she had no idea how large a mistake it was.
"May I scan it for her, Ms. Pierce?" Marisol offered.
"Marisol, go wipe down the bar. Now."
The young attendant stayed in place for half a heartbeat, looking at Constance. Then she nodded and moved away, because the rent on her apartment was due in four days and she had learned what Evelyn's warnings meant. Constance saw the hesitation. She also saw that Marisol took the long way back to the service counter so she could place a glass of water near a tired-looking passenger with a cane.
"I can wait for my flight right here," Constance said.
"No, you cannot," Evelyn replied. "Not in a members-only lounge."
The remarkable thing was that Constance did not raise her voice. She had no reason to prove the size of her authority by matching Evelyn's volume. She moved to a chair near the entrance, set her modest leather handbag beside her, and lowered herself carefully onto the cushion. At eighty-one, sitting down required a little more intention than it once had, but she refused to turn the movement into a performance of frailty.
"She is staying?" the man by the espresso machine murmured.
"Bold," said his companion.