NEW YORK CITY A band practices rhythmic, shoegazey indie rock at a polite volume a floor above me. A Syrian family makes regular Costco trips, their wiry eldest son hauling the purchases up three flights of stairs. On summer nights, the young woman next door smokes on our shared fire escape and sometimes calls to my cat, who likes to watch her from the window.

This is about as much as I know about my dozens of neighbors. Ive lived for three years in this five-story, 40-unit apartment building, built in 1917 as the subway expanded and New York City swallowed up farmland to expel the dense urban terrain we now know as Astoria, Queens. Like many New Yorkers, I maintain a semblance of privacy in close quarters by mostly keeping to myself.

Im not antisocial. I enjoy my limited interactions: a head-nod hello in the hallway as I take out the garbage, a How you doin? when holding open the front door. Im not some interloper transplant who intends to eventually leave and raise kids elsewhere. My entire extended family lives in the area. I vote in every election, including the local one that was postponed this week amid the novel coronavirus outbreak. Whether its for a haircut, a shoe repair or a good egg sandwich, Ive got my guy in the neighborhood.