On the 21st hour of our return journey from Israel to our hometown of Glasgow, Kentucky, we boarded a plane at JFK. Only one person in business class. Good. Ten in Comfort Plus and eight people behind us in the main cabin. We could practice social distancing. From my window seat, I began to consider all the risks we had encountered as an unusually quiet New York City morning unfolded below us. The United States was a very different place from the one we left only 2 weeks earlier.
The flight from Tel Aviv to JFK was crowded. As the plane’s nose went up, my eyes became heavy and I started to drift. Then I heard it: a cough in the row ahead.
Maybe a cold or the good old-fashioned flu, I hoped. But it became incessant. I shot a look at my husband, Tony, who rolled his eyes. Once the seat belt sign went off, I unbuckled to take a surreptitious look at the passenger guilty of the cough. She was a frail, elderly lady hunkered down in her seat, eyes closed, barely able to maintain an upright position. Her face mask was damp, wilted, and limp-fitting around her nose and mouth.
