Abby
As I approach Mr. Thompson and the health inspector, I slip off my hood and my blue surgical mask, sticking the mask in my pocket. I’m sure I look like a wreck at the moment, but that’s not at the forefront of my mind right now.
“Morning, Abby,” Mr. Thompson says, his eyes filled with a confusing mixture of sympathy and disappointment. He nods toward my pocket where I’ve just stored the mask. “Hiding, are we?”
I swallow, feeling small under their gazes. “I usually wear a mask on the subway,” I lie, not wanting to admit that I’m already terrified of the backlash that this entire debacle will create.
Mr. Thompson nods slowly, then turns to the health inspector. “Abby, this is Mr. Harrison,” he says, gesturing to the portly older man wearing a tan jacket with a health department embl
