The least safe place in the world right now has been blessed essential by the powers that be: an American grocery store.

Cities and states across the United States have forced “non-essential” businesses to close. Of course, “non-essential,” as a term, can only be defined through arbitrary, nepotic despotism. In other words, it means whatever those in power want it to mean. The poor and powerless are left without jobs, without a voice. The well-connected political and corporate elites continue business as usual.

Meanwhile, the least safe place in the world right now has been blessed essential by the powers that be: an American grocery store.

Saturday, I left my house for the second time in two weeks and for the same reason: to pick up a controlled substance from the pharmacy.

For me, that meant bypassing the hordes surrounding the self checkout at my local Target, then dodging the damsels more preoccupied with the perfect makeup for pandemic selfies than social distancing. Apparently, the six-foot standard doesn’t apply in the beauty aisles.

Ten paces further, I made it to the intra-Target CVS. The pharmacist is dressed like a surgeon—gloves, mask, and scrubs. The counter has been walled off with plexiglass like a bulletproofed South Phoenix convenience store.

I waited atop a blue footprint decal that read, “Stay safe, wait here.” I was the second and last person in line, just behind another tall Millennial man.

Three women scooted by me, coming within three feet of my face. Only one wore a mask. That’s what happens when the nation’s top disease-control agency changes its mind mid-quarantine.

Like most businesses, CVS had to adapt to serve and protect their customers and to survive. During the pandemic, for no extra charge, they will deliver prescriptions to their patients’ homes. Given all the bureaucratic absurdity through the last six weeks, this is one policy that makes sense. Those most likely to need medications for chronic conditions are also the most likely to be vulnerable to novel coronavirus.

Unless, of course, you need a Schedule II substance. Absurd as it is, the very government mandating I stay home also requires I risk my lungs and my life to get my hands on a month supply of the same ADHD drug I have been taking for a decade.

The very government mandating I stay home also requires I risk my lungs and my life to get my hands on a month supply of drugs.

The other man left. I stepped up to the pharmacy counter. Touching the payment screen, I felt like a batter following the lead-off hitter in a baseball game. My stomach churned. My heartbeat increased. One stroke of the keys, one touch of the face, and it could all be over. My fate was in my own hands.

After grabbing a handful of groceries, I had to repeat the process—only this time in a much longer line that ended at the machines that once promised efficiency and now promise Chinese roulette.

When I finally arrived at my car, I took a deep breath. I was relieved to be out of the store, but horrified at the prospects of infection, of a totalitarian future.

I won’t know for two weeks if I made it out unscathed. My freedoms got caught in the pandemonium and paid the ultimate price. They may never recover.