Masked and anonymous in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, moved nearly to tears by the speech of the worker who advises us on how to behave once admitted: “All of us have someone we love at home, someone we want to protect.” It’s a ritual akin to baptism to wait, to be handed to a freshly sanitized cart, to be admitted into the confines of the deliberately underpopulated store in which sweet-and-sour 80s pop tunes reverberate as we maneuver our carts up and down the aisles, picking up our frozen pizzas and coffee and pasta. Don’t you forget about me.