When Lola, a veritable 13-year-old fille fatale (think: highlighted, long hair; large, black faux reading glasses; cropped T-shirt; short shorts, etc.) chose my son for their eighth-grade banquet/dance, my husband and I were painfully aware of how this love story would end: the outcome dangled in the balance, like a caterpillar tent, waiting to unleash its twitchy cache on the bare neck of my son’s unsuspecting soul.

On March 17, 2020, Washington State was the first state to lockdown over the coronavirus pandemic: No going to school/rowing Crew for my son, Tanner, 18; no flying at Mach 0.85 for my corporate pilot husband; and no substitute teaching for me, or competing on my U.S.T.A. (United States Tennis Association) women’s championship-bound tennis teams. Indoor tennis/athletic clubs closed across America. And locks were installed on all our local/public tennis courts, on Bainbridge Island, WA, a 35-minute ferry ride from Seattle.