City of plague:A new Yorker’s pandemic chronicle Pt 8.

In early March, New York City confirmed its first case of COVID-19: a middle-aged partner at a Midtown Manhattan law firm. Within days, family members, friends, and colleagues who had been in close contact with him also tested positive. Some had mild symptoms. Others became critically ill. The attorney himself deteriorated so quickly that he was placed on a ventilator and admitted to intensive care.

The news spread fast. Anxiety spread faster.

Like many New Yorkers, I followed every update with a tightening chest. The detail that unsettled me most was simple: he had used public transportation. If that was true, then none of us who rode the subway could pretend to be untouched. I remember thinking, with a quiet dread, So much for staying out of it.

The city’s second confirmed case also lived in Midtown. She was a 39-year-old healthcare worker who had contracted the virus while traveling in Iran. Unlike the attorney, her illness was mild. When she returned through JFK Airport, she avoided public transit, took a taxi home, wore a mask, and deliberately avoided close contact with others. Her precautions worked. She recovered in isolation and did not infect anyone else.

By then, it hardly mattered who had been infected first. What mattered was that the virus had crossed oceans and borders and was now here—moving among us.

New York Governor Andrew Cuomo addressed the public bluntly: the virus had not primarily arrived from Asia, as many assumed, but from Europe. Flights from Europe had continued longer. “The front door was closed,” he suggested, “but the back door was open.” Genetic sequencing would later support that conclusion—but by then, the damage was done.

When infections appeared in the courthouse next door to our office, fear stopped being abstract. It was personal.

My colleague, Ms. Lin, was visibly shaken. We both commuted by subway. Every morning, we stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers in crowded cars, unmasked and unprotected. It felt, in hindsight, like running into battle without armor.

Almost no one wore masks at that time. To do so felt conspicuous—almost embarrassing. The cultural norm in New York then was skepticism, even mild ridicule. The result? We were exposed, whether we admitted it or not.

Ms. Lin’s anxiety showed in her restless hands and distracted gaze. I shared her fear, though I tried to appear composed. In a crisis like this, I thought, we couldn’t simply wait for fate to decide. We needed a plan.

After discussing it privately, we decided to speak with our boss about adjusting our work hours—perhaps arriving earlier or later to avoid rush-hour crowds.

Our boss, Jesse, was in his forties, a Harvard graduate, thoughtful and decisive. He had inherited and expanded a sizable family business. Despite the wealth behind him, he ran our office without hierarchy or pretense. We called him “Jesse,” never “boss,” and he addressed us by our first names. Meetings ended with a casual “Thank you,” not commands.

When we presented our concerns, he listened carefully. After a brief pause, he said, “Why don’t you come in an hour later and leave an hour earlier? That should help you avoid peak subway traffic.”

It was such a simple solution that we almost laughed in relief.

But Ms. Lin and I exchanged a glance. There was one unspoken question left.

I quietly prompted her in Chinese, and she hesitated before asking, “Jesse… what about our salaries?”

“Full pay,” he answered immediately.

We thanked him in unison.

For a moment, it felt like we had regained a small measure of control.

Two weeks later, that feeling evaporated. Cases surged. Deaths climbed toward two thousand and kept rising. Each commute felt like a calculated risk.

One day Ms. Lin leaned toward me and whispered, “Do you know Jesse is more afraid than we are? He opens the building’s front door with his foot.”

I laughed it off—until she showed me security footage on her phone. There he was: lifting his right foot to press the handle, twisting it carefully so the latch retracted, pushing the door open without touching it with his hands, and slipping outside in one fluid motion.

I stared at the screen, then burst into embarrassed laughter. The maneuver was oddly impressive. Efficient. Determined. Human.

After that, Jesse rarely came into the office. Ms. Lin and I speculated that perhaps he was avoiding the subway like the rest of us. The uncertainty heightened our nerves.

One afternoon she asked, “Do you wear a mask on the train?”

I hesitated. “Do you?”

“I did at first,” she admitted. “But hardly anyone else was wearing one. I felt self-conscious.”

Then she lowered her voice. “My husband told me some Asians in Midtown were harassed for wearing masks. I’m afraid someone might yell at me—or worse.”

Her husband was white; they had met in college. She feared not only infection, but hostility.

I felt a familiar heaviness. For many Asian Americans, masks had become complicated symbols—of caution, yes, but also of otherness. Even knowing masks were protective, we weighed safety against stigma.

“I wear one,” I told her. “But I wrap a scarf over it so people don’t immediately see.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s smart. I’ll use a scarf too.”

A week later, the city issued stay-at-home orders. Ms. Lin began working remotely. She no longer had to choose daily between health and income. I congratulated her sincerely.

My situation was different. My job was classified as essential. I still had to go in, though Jesse reduced my schedule to two flexible days a week.

Before we parted, Ms. Lin looked at me curiously. “Do you know why Jesse really stopped coming in?”

“Because he’s afraid of getting sick,” I said confidently.

She shook her head. “No. His family owns a textile factory—with over a thousand employees.”

I stared at her.

“Business is booming,” she continued. “They manufacture cotton fabric for masks. Orders have exploded.”

The irony was almost poetic. While we speculated about fear, Jesse had been consumed by demand. The same virus that emptied our office had ignited another part of his business.

It was the last time Ms. Lin and I spoke face to face before the city retreated indoors.

There was a strange sadness in that goodbye—as if we sensed that even ordinary conversations were becoming fragile. The pandemic was not only altering our routines; it was reshaping our assumptions about preparedness, safety, identity, and survival.

Were we ready?

Clearly not.

But ready or not, history had already arrived at our door—and none of us could pretend we hadn’t heard the knock.