The flight was supposed to leave at 6:15. Daniel Hartley missed it by two minutes—two minutes spent stuck behind idiots in the security line, running through a terminal that seemed designed to waste his time.

He screamed at the customer service rep. Demanded to see a manager. Made someone's day a little worse because that's what he does, what he's always done, what people like him have always gotten away with.

They rebooked him on the redeye. Gate 66. Terminal C.

Terminal C isn't on any map. The corridor leads through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, past flickering fluorescent lights, into a terminal that looks like it was built in the 1970s and never updated. Orange plastic chairs. Brown carpet. A departure board with mechanical letters that flip with a soft clack-clack-clack.

FLIGHT 666 — DELAYED

The other ...