Heading home from work, I stepped onto an elevator. A few floors down, a tired looking woman entered.

As we continued to descend, I made small talk. Eventually, the woman clarified why she looked a tad bedraggled. “I’m headed home to take care of my son. He has a bad case of influenza.”

Normally in such cases, I’m just filled with sympathy. In this case however, I was stuck in an elevator. No air circulation. Confined space. Trapped with a potentially unsuspecting flu bug host.

Looking at the closed elevator door, I considered scratching and clawing at its stainless steel like a feral cat in a cardboard box. Instead, I counted the seconds and tried to remember the last breathe of fresh air that had filled my lungs. All I could do was pray, “Get me influ-outtahere!” Well, that and her son’s speedy recovery, but you get the idea.