Author My cab driver to the Corona Inn isn’t worried about catching the virus from me. “I might catch it from you, I might catch it grabbing a slice. At least this way,” he says, “they’re paying me double.” He means New York City Health + Hospitals, which has covered the fee of this cab ride and my stay—including meals—at the LaGuardia Plaza Hotel. The driver wears two masks. I wear two masks. He wears plastic gloves. I wear insulated Humane Society gloves I bought at a thrift store. It’s a relief to know he knows what I am—infected; contagious—and is not, as I feared, naïve to the threat I present to him.