Day 48 of Covid-19 quarantine. The sun gleams on my glassy back, the small dark garnet of my eye in its silver socket twitches as I flit from house to house. Slowly swinging myself on a whisker, I balance my little body on the ledge of a window as I peer inside.

* * * * * *

“Arjun, go get Charlie. Let’s go for a walk,” Usha calls out to her son. It’s her only thirty-minute break between virtual meetings. She ties a blue surgical mask on her face, then helps Arjun with his. Charlie scampers ahead, smelling and scratching at the fresh spring grass. Arjun tugs Charlie’s leash as Charlie spies a fat squirrel and tries hard to turn Arjun around in the opposite direction.

“Charlie, heel, heel,” he shouts, ineffectually as Charlie drags the end of the leash and trots up the hill, leaving Arjun swallowing a cloud of dust. A power walker in slacks and a sweater, Usha now sprints after Charlie and drags him back. She and Arjun collapse in a fit of giggles as the dog dances around them in a tizzy, whining his need to chase the squirrel.

The sky is a giant blue shell, and Usha’s thoughts drift to the tiny rituals of their lives before the Coronavirus crisis when the Universe was still in near-perfect alignment. Once a week or so, after school pick-up, she’d take Arjun to Mc Donald’s for a snack: a yogurt parfait or chicken tenders. Other days they’d just come home, and he’d play outside if the kids on the street were there or he’d watch T.V., and she’d make him a snack—a little frozen samosa or some macaroni and cheese from a box or a bowl of Maggi noodles.

But, they’d gone to McD’s on a pretty regular basis, and while it wasn’t something she’d brag about on social media—because after all the burger didn’t come with a side of organic kale—she loved sitting with Arjun and eating and talking at a patio plastic table with a red and yellow beach umbrella. While she watched him eat, she’d talk about his day, her day, his friends, her friends. They’d talk about which he liked better, apple pie or McFlurry, One Direction or Katy Perry and while the questions and answers would vary, the feel of their McD trips would always be the same: it was their special time.

Usha doubles over, suddenly seized by a bout of coughing fits.

“Mom!” Arjun screams in terror. He scrambles over to thump Usha on the back just like he’d seen her doing with his Nani.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Usha gasps, stroking Arjun’s hand to calm him down.

Arjun throws his arms around Usha until she’s pressed against his nine-year-old warm body. “Are you going to die too?” he asks in a high-pitched, childish voice.

Usha’s heart lurches.

“I heard Jaya Aunty say to Dad, ‘If you cough, you can’t breathe,’” finishes Arjun in a rush of words, his eyes moist with tears.

Usha gathers him—all awkward and gangly limbs—in a rare embrace. He was always a hugger until he became a physically distant tween. “No, No, I’m not dying,” Usha tells him firmly, determinedly. “Its allergies.”

Over the cooing of birds, she thinks of her neighbor’s forty-three-year-old husband who died yesterday from the ravages of the novel Coronavirus. He’d returned last month from a business trip to London.

Did he have weak lungs? The wrong genetic make-up? Was he in the wrong place, at the wrong time? Is that what life comes down to?

* * * * * *

Nina blinks, barely remembering what it was like to wake up without that awful the-world-as-we-knew-it-is-ending feeling in her stomach because every day it’s clear from the news that the world as we know it is ending. She squints at the green glowing numerals in the round face of her bedside clock. It is 8:05 a.m. She fumbles for her glasses on the nightstand and tumbles out of bed.

Yawning, she rifles through her overflowing closet, and harrumphs, wondering what to wear. The pencil skirts, the skinny jeans, the tailored jackets, and the designer belts, hold no attraction.

Nina looks for what is soft and warm, cozy, and comfortable. A replacement for the hugs and kisses from friends and family. She changes out of her nighttime sweats into the same daytime sweats and rubber flip-flops she’s been wearing for the past 47 days. My shoes probably think I died, she muses.

She bends down and pats Shamu the cat who’s wandered into her bedroom looking for food.

“I’m in for small victories, homie,” she tells him solemnly. “A permission to be deliciously unselfconscious without worrying about how it will look to others.”

Shamu leaps up in the air and high-fives her hand with his paw.

“Permission granted,” he seems to say, as he winks at her and purrs loudly. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been wearing the same skintight bodysuit for the past six years.”