Gritting my teeth, I stepped out into the gale. Too late, I wished I’d donned a raincoat before leaving the house. I charged up to the Mazda, approaching the driver’s side back seat first, and yanked on the door handle.

It opened. Without thinking, I threw myself into the car, relieved even in the grip of my fury to escape the rain. For one startled moment I entertained the idea that I’d entered the wrong car; why hadn’t I tried to make out something through the fogged-up window first? It was hot and damp and noisy in here. The speakers boomed so loudly my hands flew, unbidden, to my ears.

My first confused impression: the front seat appeared to be inhabited by an abnormally broad-shouldered hulk of a human being. Then, a split second later, the hulk twitched and came apart and I found myself staring at Rorie and a boy.

Rorie, thank God, was fully dressed. So was the boy. Both their maskless faces had frozen in shock; wide-eyed, openmouthed, they stared back at me before Rorie’s face unfroze and rearranged itself into an expression of pure horror.

“Mom! What are you doing?” she shrieked. “What are you doing?”

“Hello,” I told the boy calmly. “I’m Dr. Marchand, Rorie’s mother. And you are . . . ?”

With an expression of comical stupidity, the boy reached up and pushed on his chin to close his mouth. Ten awkward seconds passed. “. . . Crash,” he said.

“Well, Crash,” I said. “It’s your lucky day. I’m not calling your parents to report you, even though, may I remind you, people are not supposed to be mingling. This, to me,” I waved my hand at the front seat, “looks pretty mingly. Am I right, Crash? You are mingling with my very young daughter? Go home and tell your parents you’ve decided to ground yourself until you’re twenty. Okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbled, hitting the button to start the ignition. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Rorie’s expression of abject horror had not altered. “Mom!”

I jerked a thumb toward the door. “Out. Now.”

With a last stricken glance at Crash, Rorie scooted away from him and opened the passenger door. She slammed it hard after exiting, leaving me alone with Crash.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. Without the distraction of Rorie’s fury, he and I had the opportunity to regard each other more closely: he had fair, wavy hair and a nice, dopey face, currently arranged in an expression of contrite shame.

“Look,” I said, softening somewhat, “I know it seems like Atlanta’s in decent shape right now, but in the last week there’s been an uptick in the numbers of the virus. It’s not gone, and you do not want to get it. Stick to phone calls.”

“Yes, ma’am. I sure will.”

“Okay, then,” I said.