We are going to be inside a long time, we are told. My brother and sister wallow in the petri dishes of their video game controllers and phone screens. Recently, I have been telling you about the night sky in the Appalachians, about how the stars there shine like my two eyes in a dark empty home, about how it is beautiful, almost kismet, that I cannot take a photograph of these stars. This is only to reassure me that there is some deep superiority in a traveler falling asleep between the rustle of the longleaf pine, the taste of root beer sassafras deep in her mouth, the glint of mica like stars, rather than me falling asleep between the ambient mountain-winds and babbling-brook setting of my alarm clock. I have been told that you live very far away. You are no different from the fingernail-thin, silk-slip flowers on the lawn that I cannot go out and touch. The hammock hanging in the front yard between two elms is heavy in the middle with mold. We will throw it out once this mess is over, my mother says. We pour rubbing alcohol everywhere, even on the windows. Last night I opened my window to hear the hollow rasp of the cicadas and my brother shut it on my fingers. I think that I love you, or maybe I have been wanting to tell you that if you drop a phone on the surface of the Sahara sand dunes, it is lost forever. You can claw and claw through the sand, but the dunes are like water, and your phone is in the depths. I don’t know what this means yet, but I’ll tell you. I have time.