When I first read about a novel coronavirus quickly spreading across China in late 2019, a great sense of foreboding washed over me. As someone with depression and anxiety, I felt an urgent need to bathe myself in worst-case-scenarios. I turned to pandemic fiction. My subconscious was craving confirmation that I could survive: survive both the public tragedy of a deadly, highly contagious virus, and the private catastrophe of my mental illness. I bounced from the sublime to the ridiculous.