“What you got in there?”
“Candy?” I said, trying to think of something his dog might be interested in.
“Oh, you’ve got more than that.” The officer’s tone had that confidence of an adult speaking to a child who didn’t know how horrible they are at lying. It made sense because his drug-sniffing dog had just rubbed its head all over my backpack.
“No, I don’t.” My tone was that of a child that was confused about the question.
He was an unaffecting man: light hair, blue eyes, shining ivory skin. His voice was light and high, unlike the power-hungry-and-bored types I’m used to with cops and airport security. I handed him my passport and customs papers. He ran through the basic questions.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Bogota, Colombia.” I’m screwed.