"You can't bring that on the plane, ma'am." The agent stood beside Beatrice just outside the stuttered flow of already-weary travelers passing through security. He leaned away from her luggage.

Her hand settled protectively on the fabric-and-mesh carrying case. "It's my service animal."

"A spider larger than my hand isn't a service animal!"

"Look, just because it makes you nervous doesn't mean she can't help me! You couldn't stop me from taking my service dog if you'd gotten bitten as a child, could you?"

The agent's supervisor stepped over. "What's the trou—whoaly shit." He flinched away from the Brazilian wandering spider now clinging to the mesh top of the carrying case. "What the hell? Er, ma'am."

Beatrice simply withdrew her certified doctor's note declaring the pet a companion with legitimate medical benefits and held it out. After several minutes discussing the matter with higher pay grades someplace out of sight, the supervisor returned and handed the note back.

"So, uh." He was sweating. "That helps you? Somehow?"

"She soothes me. Helps avoid panic attacks." She tucked the note away and swept up her things.

"I panic less," she murmured as she walked away, "knowing I can have her bite fools."