My daughter’s name pops up on my cell on the prophetic date of Friday, March 13 — it’s an actual phone call and not a text, so I know it’s something either wonderful or worrisome. “Mom,” she asks. “Can we come to you?”
The novel coronavirus epicenter of New York City, where she lives, is emptying out and the supermarket shelves have been stripped of toilet paper and Clorox wipes. “Yes,” I quickly reply. “Just get on a plane and we’ll figure it all out later.”
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