Naomi stopped.
For a moment, she thought she had misunderstood. She glanced toward the aircraft stairs, then back at the woman blocking them. Her expression remained composed, though a slight tightening around her eyes revealed her surprise.
"I'm sorry?" Naomi asked.
Obra sighed, as if Naomi had deliberately made a simple task difficult.
"The service entrance," she repeated, pointing again. "Around the back. You can't board through here."
Naomi looked at the small black suitcase beside her. She looked down at the medical bag in her hand. Then she returned her gaze to Obra.
"I'm Dr. Naomi Brooks. I'm here for the departure."
Obra gave her a brief, dismissive look that traveled from Naomi's face to her orange jacket and then down to her suitcase.
"Right, and I'm Obra. Move along before I call security."
It was not merely the words that made the moment humiliating. It was the performance surrounding them. Obra spread her arms, widened her stance, and positioned her body as though she were guarding a restricted facility from an intruder. She did not ask for Naomi's boarding confirmation. She did not request identification. She did not offer to check the passenger list. She had already reached a conclusion and had decided that every fact Naomi might provide was less important than that conclusion.
Naomi did not retreat.
She stood quietly beside the bottom stair, one hand resting on the handle of her suitcase. Behind Obra, the aircraft door remained open. A ground crew member glanced over, noticed the confrontation, and then quickly returned to his trolley. Two passengers who had already boarded looked down from a window. One of them leaned closer to see what was happening.
Naomi took a slow breath.
"I have a confirmed assignment on this aircraft," she said. "Please check the passenger manifest."
Obra let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you? This isn't a public entrance. Authorized passengers board through the proper channel. Personnel and service staff use the designated access point."
"I'm not asking you to make an exception," Naomi replied. "I'm asking you to check the list."
"And I'm telling you that you're holding up boarding."
Naomi glanced at the aircraft clock visible through the open door, then back at the attendant.
"Then checking the list should resolve this in a few seconds."
That answer seemed to anger Obra more than an argument would have. She was accustomed to people becoming flustered when challenged by someone wearing a uniform. Some apologized immediately. Others became defensive, raising their voices until Obra could accuse them of being disruptive. Naomi was doing neither. Her calmness denied Obra the reaction she appeared to expect.
Obra lowered her outstretched arm just long enough to point toward a paved lane beside the terminal.
"I don't have time to debate this with you. Go back to the terminal, speak to ground services, and let them explain where you're supposed to be."
Naomi's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I have already checked in. My name is on the departure paperwork. Please check the manifest."
"One more time," Obra said, stepping closer. "Move."
The distance between them had become uncomfortable. Obra was no longer merely directing Naomi toward another entrance. She was physically occupying the boarding path, forcing a passenger with legitimate business to stand outside the aircraft while she delivered instructions that no one had verified.
Naomi felt the old, familiar pressure rise in her chest. It was a feeling she recognized from hospital corridors, boardrooms, academic conferences, and more ordinary places where people had decided what she could be before hearing her name. It was not the first time a stranger had mistaken her authority for an act of deception. It was not the first time she had been expected to prove that she belonged somewhere she had every right to enter.
But this was not an academic conference. A regional hospital was depending on the medical response team to arrive. Naomi had spent the previous evening reviewing contingency plans, calling colleagues, and arranging for specialized equipment to be waiting on the other side. She had no intention of wasting the morning fighting over a door. She also had no intention of allowing someone to turn an unsupported assumption into a reason to deny her access.
"Please get the captain," she said.
Obra's expression hardened.
"You don't get to tell me how to do my job."
"And you don't get to decide I'm unauthorized without checking."
The words landed between them, simple and unmistakable.