Three days into my coronavirus hellscape: It was 2 a.m. My sweet, sleep-deprived husband dozed in the living room of our Brooklyn apartment while I writhed in pain in our bed. As my temperature crept past 102 degrees, I couldn’t find the strength to get up for a cold compress. I called his name, hoping he was awake. I heard the floor creak under his footsteps. Relief washed over me. “I can’t believe you heard me,” I said. “Actually I didn’t,” he said. “The dog heard you.” My knights in shining armor. — Allie Ceccola