“We have enough food and toilet paper to last us till tomorrow,” she tells him. “I’ll keep trying. But, you know, you could also download the app on your phone.”

My mom doesn’t say what she really wants to say: A pound of chicken thighs is not worth the possibility of burying her teenage daughter. It’s the elephant in the room that none of us are brave enough to mention yet. Of the three of us, I’m the one who’s most at risk here. But instead of addressing the delicate state of my existence, I decide to look at quaint Instagram drawings telling me that the virus can live on a cardboard box for seven days. This morning, I opened a package of pancake batter and disinfectant that came to our door last night. I try to remember if I accidentally touched my nose or my eyes before washing my hands, but I’m not sure.

For the past ten days—the window of time that the virus can stay dormant—we were all waiting to find out if we’d been infected when we were still out in the world. For me, that meant school, band practice, student council meetings, the local homeless shelter where I volunteer, and my last supper at Katie’s Diner. For my parents, it’s the Apple offices and all their fancy amenities, and whatever ritzy four-star restaurant they frequented for business lunches and dinners. I take some comfort in the fact that I’m no longer the only one in our house whose default mode is anxious—though my parents are generally too wrapped up in product launches and software updates to be privy to any of my modes.

For once, we are all worried and panicked, and yet despite that fact, my parents still decided that it’s safer for my sister, Neda, to fly home on an airplane and quarantine with us. I don’t care if the dorms are shutting down. It’s not like my parents couldn’t afford to put her up in a hotel for a couple of months. We weren’t going to see her until Christmas break anyway. And it’s a six-hour flight from Connecticut to the San Jose airport, so she’s basically coming here just to put my life at risk. And hers too, I guess. But if there’s one person whose immune system could survive Adema, it’s my sister. She’d fight off the illness through sheer will and confidence. Seriously, the girl could show up to a gunfight with a plastic butter knife, and she’d still win.