Comic Relief

IN MID-MARCH, a new handwritten sign appeared in my apartment building’s mailroom. It hung in sharp contrast to the one that had been there for a month, in which an aggrieved resident warned about package thievery. This new sign, instead, was about giving packages away.

“Hello neighbors,” it began. “Right now is a scary time.”

, I thought. Instead of traveling to publicize my new book, I was filling my days by worrying about my mom, who was sick with what we were calling “maybe The Thing”; imagining tiny death particles on every surface; wondering if my work as a freelance writer would continue to exist; and generally considering the collapse of normal society. Almost anything,