On Thursday evening I began to get a sore-ish sort of scratching in my throat, the kind you hope is voice strain, because surely you aren’t having muscle aches—was that a muscle ache, maybe that’s a muscle ache. I’m just tired, that’s it, just tired—I was coming up on the end of yet another twelve-hour workday, so tired was definitely on the table. Still pandemics being what they are, I got home and nipped straight over for a rapid Covid test, just to be safe.

At the time I left work, I was a regular girl, welcome anywhere, but by the time I arrived at the doctor’s office an hour later, I had entered a new category: Pariah, not even allowed in the building. I do not mean to imply the doctor’s staff was harsh or mean, because they were perfectly kind, and I completely understand and applaud their safety protocols. They were handling the whole affair exactly right, but there’s something about having to sit outside in my car and check in over the phone that has the whiff of the unwanted about it. However, the process was what it had to be, and after we had chatted on the phone long enough to give them my life story, and the DNA sequence of four distant ancestors, they took a page from The Kidnapper’s Handbook, instructing me to walk through an alley between two buildings and await further instructions.

So, off I went, hoping I had enough money to pay the ransom, when I came upon an enclosed concrete quad with an access door to the building. There I waited until a sweet nurse practitioner popped out to keep her social distance, and give me two thirds of the instructions I needed. “Grab a tissue, and just count to ten,” she said. “It’s easier if you’re counting yourself.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling all mature and stuff. I can count to ten, been doing it for years.