The terminal at Newark flowed with its usual rhythm, the roll of suitcase wheels, flight announcements echoing overhead, voices overlapping in a dozen accents.
But among the moving crowd, it was hard not to notice the cluster of figures in bright red tracksuits.
Heads turned, whispers followed, and phones quietly lifted for photos at Arteta's men, who stuck out like a sore thumb.
Arsenal had landed.
By the glass doors near arrivals, Arteta stood with his hands in his pockets, looking only mildly amused as Saliba jogged back from the gate area, an apologetic grin on his face.
"Found it?" Arteta asked, though he already knew the answer.
Saliba shook his head.
"No. I think it fell somewhere between the seats or maybe in the jetway. But they said it's fine. I showed my provisional one; they'll mail it if they find it."
Arteta exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Good. Let's try not to lose anything else before kickoff, yeah?"
