ST. PETERSBURG, Fla. — My partner started feeling low about a week ago.

We chalked it up to the stress of moving; her lease at a terrible apartment complex in Lake Mary had ended, and she’d been allowed to work remotely for weeks. Why pay for two residences when we’re all working virtually, right?

On Friday, we got scared.

My partner (who wished not to be named for the purposes of this article) had been running a low fever off and on. She didn’t have any of the other typical symptoms of COVID-19—headache, trouble breathing, et cetera. But her lethargy was enough to prompt us to call the Community Health Centers of Pinellas County to try to get tested. 

The woman on the phone was friendly enough, but the language and protocol were confusing. We can’t get tested today even though she might be exhibiting symptoms. We have to wait for someone else to interview us in order to secure an appointment to get tested. We secured an appointment for an appointment that might deem us worthy of testing.

A friend suggested that we just go to CVS to get tested. We went online and tried to get an appointment at CVS. CVS is apparently booked up until the end of time.

Even though I’m asymptomatic, I received a call from Community Health Centers of Pinellas County before my partner did. I was not scheduled an appointment—I was told I was pre-registered, and that I could show up at the south St. Petersburg location at any time between 7 a.m. and noon, before Thursday. My possibly symptomatic partner was told she would get a call the day after I did; we decided she would go with me, appointment or not.

We haven’t been perfect. We’ve gone to the grocery store, to a restaurant, to the businesses that line Gulfport’s busy oceanside district, which has been bustling, if less bustling than usual. But we’ve worn masks, and socially distanced, and walked our dog Murphy in a wide arc around anyone we’ve encountered.

Tuesday morning, we drove to the Johnnie Ruth Clarke location of Community Health Centers of Pinellas. A very nice young man directed us to turn on our hazard lights and pull to the right of a quickly-filling lane of cars. We waited about an hour, and then were directed to a parking space. We waited about another hour, before a very nice young woman took our drivers’ licenses and medical information. Eventually, another very nice young woman in what can only be described as Marty McFly’s “future suit” from Back to the Future came over and stuck a q-tip in my nose. It wasn’t painful—apparently they’re iterating the test, and no longer feel the need to touch your brain as if you’re being mummified—but it did make my eyes water.

They swabbed my partner as well, despite her having not received a call.

(My partner, you will remember, was the “symptomatic” one.)

As we prepared to leave, I got out of the car to throw away some trash, and a woman still in the car line waved me nearer. She had all her kids in the car; to me, it looked like octomillioin, a clown car, but there were probably only four or five.

“Did it hurt?”

I told her it did not. It felt like something I should do as a member of a community.

And now, we wait.