Recurring nightmare

Picture this.  You have all your possessions confiscated; you're shouted at by rough uniformed guards, you've no belt so your pants are close to falling off, and you have to clutch them with a spare hand, but not before you are made to stand in front of a device that can see you naked, in case you have some means of escape upon you.  After sniggers from some faceless "trusty" in a booth, you shuffle your shoeless feet off to join the others hunched and cowed in your group to await your fate - perhaps even a personal interview with some butch female with hands the size of shovels, and who in spite of having all the authority in this place, has a serious attitude.

What awaits?  Years behind one of these damp, rusted cell doors in a dank soulless dungeon with nothing but moldy crusts to eat and brackish water to drink?  No, what awaits is Flight 1824 from Burbank to Oakland at 10:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning.  Good grief!