For two weeks, we waited for the pandemic police to come.
In mid-July, my wife and I headed on vacation to a rustic cabin her father built 65 years ago on a small lake north of Toronto.
Most Americans can't visit Canada these days. Because of the coronavirus threat, both countries have closed their borders to nonessential traffic.
But my spouse is a dual U.S.-Canadian citizen, so we were allowed in — as long as we agreed to quarantine ourselves for 14 days.
Not a symbolic, wear-a-mask-and-keep-your-distance-but-go-about-your-business quarantine; a real one — no venturing beyond the cabin and the dock. No shopping trips, no long walks, no visitors.
And no swimming in the lake — a question I rashly asked one of the public health officers who telephoned almost every day to check on us.
"I'm sorry, but no," he said. "It's a public lake. You might run into someone out there. And if you got into trouble, someone would have to fish you out."
"I'm really sorry," he added. He sounded like he meant it.