In her back pocket, her phone chimes, and she checks it to find a message from Detective Augustino Chives. He has pinged her the GPS coordinates so she knows where to find him inside of Schmitz Preserve Park, thirty acres of forest in West Seattle. As long as traffic is clear on the 5, she should be there in twenty. She taps out a quick message saying as much, but before she leaves, she has to fit on her mask.

Nora buys masks in bulk. She stores a package by the front door, tucked away in a decorative cabinet, so she can slip one on just in case a deliveryman rings the bell. She stows another package here in the mudroom, next to the dish where she keeps her badge and car keys. She doesn’t leave the house without a mask looped around her ears and fitted over her nose and mouth. She prefers them in black to the standard white because the color matches her hair and makes the mask look more like an accessory and less like a bandage. They are carbon-filtered and anti-dust, antiviral, anti-spore, antibacterial. The only time she doesn’t wear one is inside her townhome, but she is so accustomed to their shielding comfort that she feels a little raw and naked without one.

Yes, she carries hand sanitizer with her, and yes, she opens doors with her sleeve, and yes, she avoids shaking hands—but her disgust with germs and contamination is more focused on breathing. Because when you breathe, you’re allowing something inside of you. An intimacy equivalent to sex. The average adult inhales and exhales eight liters of air every minute. That’s around eleven thousand liters of air a day. Only 20 percent of this is oxygen. The rest is made up of gases, smoke, pollen, fungal spores, and microbial organisms recklessly ingested. Can you imagine chugging four big soda bottles full of toilet water every minute? It’s the same thing to her. You can’t soap out your lungs. But you can armor them with a mask.