Day 27

This morning I got up, got ready, put a woodworking mask and a pair of gloves in the car, and drove to the workplace.

There, at that center of commerce, a whole other kind of life is taking place. Surfaces are being cleaned, distance is being maintained, signs keep the public at bay in the parking lot, but the people there, some with homemade masks, some with bandanas wrapped around their faces, are talking to each other, asking each other "how's it going," like we all used to, as if such a thing were normal, or possible.

It is nice to see that they, being always six feet or more from each other, are talking too loudly, like the rest of into our microphones. They haven't missed out on the spirit of the experience.

I'm also glad the government has taken to recommending these homemade masks. They may or may not work, but they're an important part of the recognized post-apocalyptic dystopian outfit. Attend, o future historians. See our dusty balaclavas and know us. We're the ones left wandering the parched land alone, inexplicably alive, after the end of the world.

The task that took me to the workplace was an important one. I moved a telephone from a spot where it wasn't getting used to another spot where it won't get used. That completed, I removed myself as quickly as possible. Back at the habitat, I went through the ritual washing, cleansing myself in atonement for the breach of isolation. By noon I was back in the Emergency Command and Control Vehicle, returned to my formless form, a string of data packets on the wire.