The first time I took Carlo to the hospital was two years ago, in August 2020. This was after Ontario’s first wave but before vaccines, the summer of park beers and long walks; the flat line of case numbers was just starting to tick slightly upward. It was early in the morning, sun searing through the curtains. For some reason I flared awake out of a dream, and when I turned to look at my partner of six years, I saw that he was already awake and staring blankly into the middle distance. His skin was so pale it looked see-through; his teeth were chattering a little. Can you feel my forehead and tell me if it’s . . . hot hot hot? he asked. The rhythm of this sentence is still burned into my brain. I touched him. Terror.
My father drove us to the ER. It was the first time we’d been in someone else’s car since March. We rolled down the windows; it was a beautiful day. I could not remember the last time I’d been this far into downtown Toronto.
