NEW ORLEANS — One recent afternoon, Mama, ready to run some errands, clips herself into the passenger seat of my Volkswagen sedan, disposable purple gloves on her hands, a dim glint in her eye.

I have the same in mine. One that comes from being cooped up too long; from “sheltering in place,” as the government euphemism goes, with no end yet in sight. That I’ve lost count of the people I know who have Covid-19 — and know a couple of people who’ve died — doesn’t make it easier to take.

My mother, a retired health care worker, hasn’t been out of her apartment in almost three weeks. In ordinary times, I’d pick her up and ferry her from the A.T.M. to the supermarket or the sundries store, where a pillow-size bag of popcorn can be had for $1. And usually, I’d stay in the car.

But not now. Now — because she is at higher risk of developing a severe case of Covid-19 — she stays in the car while I take her handwritten lists. I would prefer that she stay home, of course. But this is the compromise, the only thing stopping her from calling a cab and doing it all herself.