Read: A virus with a deadly boring name

Smiley and her mother had CT scans that showed infection in their lungs. Smiley, still extremely organized like she was when she was in middle school, quickly sent her 1-year-old son to her aunt’s, moved to a hotel to self-quarantine, and took her mother to the hospital. She also began keeping a diary.

On January 22, I messaged her: “If anyone can make it through this, I know it’s you. Be brave and be strong.”

“I’ve done everything I could to eliminate risks of infection at home. I’ve spent 24 hours at the hospital trying to get my mother a bed,” she responded. “I’m scared surrounded by so many people coughing with fever, but I’m the only one who can take care of my mother at this point.”



On the same day, I decided to take her advice and cancel my trip to Wuhan. Immediately, I thought of all of the things I would miss at home: giving red envelopes to my nieces at family reunions; tasting my grandma’s lotus-root-and-ribs soup; taking my mom to a movie; cooking with my dad; and gobbling down bowls of Wuhan’s hot dry noodle, everyone’s favorite breakfast of noodles smothered in hot oil and sesame sauce.

But I mostly feared for my family and friends. The coronavirus was wreaking havoc in Wuhan. By then, at least 25 people had died and more than 800 had been infected as the outbreak continued to spread across China. What baffled me was how quickly the infected number had gone from a few dozen to several hundred. I wondered if things were more serious than the government was letting on.

I posted in a previously dormant high-school-alumni group: What’s going on with the virus? Are the numbers what the government says they are? The group exploded with messages. One classmate said his wife and mother had been hospitalized. Another said her father was ill and needed a bed. A classmate who’s a doctor said medical staff had received orders to skip the holidays and go back to work.

On January 23, Wuhan announced a complete lockdown, suspending all public transportation, including buses, ferries, flights, and trains. A panic started brewing among family and friends.

Smiley sent me pictures of hopelessly long lines at a Wuhan hospital. “Oh my God, there are so many people,” I commented. “Doesn’t standing in lines like this make it easier for people to catch the virus?”

She responded with pictures of herself wearing a pair of sleeve covers, plastic gloves, and three layers of surgical masks while holding her and her mom’s X-ray results. “There’s nothing we can do,” she answered, still relatively composed. “Tomorrow I’m going to add a raincoat on top of my down jacket. I tried to get a pair of goggles too, but they were out of stock.”

In the meantime, the Wuhan government was in the national spotlight for mishandling the outbreak: Instead of warning people earlier, officials had decided to sit on the news and wait for orders from above. Eventually, though, the reality of the situation became impossible to hide. Doomsday scenes emerged online. Streets were bleak and eerie as people took cover at home.