I have always loved New York in the early morning, before the rest of the city wakes up. There is an innocence, like seeing a woman without her makeup. Bodega owners hosing down sidewalks, the occasional jogger — the American work ethic on display. The light is soft. The sounds are soft, too, like a baby gurgling in its sleep: the sleepy bus, lumbering to its stop; a car’s wheels on pavement; the faint tinkle of bird song.

Soon this gauze will be lifted. The chorus of car horns will begin in earnest as the sun intensifies its rays, burning dirt and smoke. People will don their masks, their voices a cacophony of busy-ness. Even the dogs will march. There are things to do. No one wins a prize.

But now, in this early morning, my husband sleeps in the next room, and my dog at my feet, and I think: “I got this.”