“I guess there’s only one way to find out. Actually, I’m excited to drive again,” I lie. “I won’t be getting behind a car much at school.”

In a couple of weeks, my parents and I fly out to Boston so they can help me get settled in my apartment before classes begin. It was their idea that I get a place just a mile from campus, even though all my classes will still be over Zoom. I plan to continue my weekly sessions with Bonnie, and she’s going to help find me a local doctor, in case we decide that I should start taking medication, as well, to manage my anxiety. Even my parents agreed that may be a good idea.

“We want you to do whatever you need to do to thrive, Parisa,” my dad told me. “And we know this might not feel like a real college experience, but it’s better than being stuck at home.”

I know he’s right, but as much as I’m desperate for the change in scenery, it did cross my mind that my parents might be sending me away because they didn’t want to delay the next phase of their lives. After a year of quarantine, an empty nest probably feels earned. They want a vacation from all the tension and havoc their children have brought into their home-slash–office space.

“I’ll be so pissed if you get us killed on our way to get vaxxed,” Neda moans—as though she wasn’t the person who forced me behind the steering wheel all of five minutes ago.

I don’t tell my sister, but I’ve already considered the possibility of getting into a fatal car accident right before, or right after, we get vaccinated. Of course I have. Despite some progress in therapy, this is how my brain works. Worst-case scenarios are my sweet spot.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I reply, just as I accidentally run a stop sign.

“Maybe don’t take the freeway,” my sister suggests, gripping her door.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m solely residential.”