I walk alongside my friend on the sidewalk trailing through the streets of Seattle. The summer sun beats down on us unrelentingly as the scratchy fabric of my mask irritates my skin. I dodge people as they pass us, and it’s strange how aware I’ve become of my distance from others. We talk about nothing and everything at the same time since we had never even heard of this disease the last time we hung out. “I’m thinking of getting a dog,” I say. 

We continue on further and I notice a crowd gathered in the distance. My first thought wonders how selfish they could be to gather in such a large crowd. However, that thought soon dissipates as I notice what they have surrounded. Five middle-aged men surround a woman laying brokenly on the ground. Blood oozes from a gash on her forehead while tears ooze from her eyes. A cardboard poster has fallen forgotten a few feet from the woman. It reads: “My ethnicity is not a virus.” People pass by, staring as though they have cacospectamania, but no one bothers to help the woman. 

“Stupid, bat eater,” I hear one of the men mutter cruelly as we make it to the scene before he brings his foot right into the woman’s stomach. The woman lets out a sob that could make even the most cold-blooded person feel guilty. The desire to help floods into my veins, but so does fear. I keep glancing back at the scene, pity keeping it’s iron grip on my heart.  My friend grabs my arm, the first time we’ve been close enough to touch all day, but it isn’t comforting. It’s commanding. 

A group of people approach behind us now and I can hear tidbits of their conversation. “What kind of sad, crazy times are we living in?” I share a look with my friend, knowing she can hear them as well.

“So,” she smiles weakly, “you said you were thinking of getting a dog?”