Wednesday, April 8, 2020 Today Paul Hopkins, Beatrice’s eldest son, comes marching up to my house with militant steps. He comes right up next to me on our walkway as if he’d never heard of COVID. “Have you heard the news?” he asks. The children and I are taking advantage of a break in the rain by jump roping in the front yard. I tie the rope around our porch’s support pillars so that I can turn the rope solo. So far neither of the twins can jump more than five hops in a row before messing up. It’s Theo’s turn when Paul’s white terrier mix, which he walks daily, trots right through the turning rope, messing up Theo’s turn, stopping the proceedings, and sniffing Theo in the face. Theo pulls his arms in tight against his chest and flinches as Leche gives him a lick. Opal retreats behind my skirt, and I scoop up Johnny who has been smashing ants on the sidewalk. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing, Leche?” Paul rebukes his dog. “Come here. Sit!” Leche returns to Paul’s side and obeys shame-faced. “So did you hear?” Paul continues to me. “The air six feet around every person is teeming with the molecules of a highly contagious disease!” He says this while waving his arms around like a magician. “If you stay indoors, you’ll be safe, but if you come out here, you may get it. So we’ve got to stay cooped up in our stale-aired homes. Be afraid. Be very afraid. That’s what the government wants.”
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