Brazil: Every morning, when millions of people wake up and get to work every day, so does Furtado, but she stays at home 265 days.

Barbie Furtado woke up with a migraine on the 265th day of social exclusion. She picked up the phone to see the weekly report on the Covid-19 situation.

The 2.6-million-person city of Fortaleza in northeastern Brazil, where Furtado lives in a three-bedroom apartment with his mother and younger brother, reports less than 30 new cases a day.

But Furtado, 32, with no serious illness, has not left home since March 18.

"I don't know," she said.

Brazil is the world's third largest epidemic region with more than 7.7 million cases, of which more than 196,000 people die - the second highest number of deaths globally after the US.

In a country with a huge gap between rich and poor like Brazil, where delivery is very cheap, the well-off can order any service or product home-delivered, from groceries, medicine to alcohol.

Brazil's "delivery of everything" culture allows some to be surprisingly detached from society.

"It's not just the richest classes that do that," said Gessuir Pigatto, an economist at Sao Paulo State University.

Furtado, who takes online classes at a local university, plans to make full use of that opportunity until Covid-19 is defeated.

She put down the phone, her head still hurts.

Over the past nine months, Edgar Silva has met many people like Furtado.

As soon as the goods were delivered, the door closed, Silva returned to the street, working 12 hours a day on a delivery application, earning less than a dollar per stop.

Growing up in the poor neighborhood of Vila Missionaria in Sao Paulo, Silva had never lived a well-off life and nothing clarified his status more than Covid-19.

He went out so the others could stay inside.

In Brazil, a country with a history of slavery and colony, where the poor often work as housekeepers, the thriving array of delivery services has become a sign of the country's gap between rich and poor.

According to government data, from 2016 to 2020, the number of delivery staff in Brazil increased 40% to nearly 730,000 people.

"There used to be two or three people with deliveries waiting outside shopping malls and now there are 15," said Silva.

As Silva drove across the city, he sometimes thought about his customers.

But Silva would feel very guilty if he was infected with nCoV.

There were days when Filippe Vasconcellos, 32, felt like a prisoner in its prerogative.

But that comfort presents a paradox.

He asked himself that question every day and they always resulted in the same answer.

In a similar situation are Ana Lucia Baptista de Oliveira, 72, and her 88-year-old husband in the Ipanema district of Rio de Janeiro.

So is Lola Aronovich, writer and professor at Ceara Federal University.

Vasconcellos left home once last month because of force majeure.

The exchange happened very quickly, they signed the contract.

But it also made Vasconcellos uneasy.

"You're bored," said Barbie Furtado's brother, Pedro Amaral, 25.

"If I'm not scared I can't imagine," said his mother, 55-year-old Liana Amaral.

"Times like this and that," Barbie Furtado said.

Furtado's family of three had repeated that conversation over the past several months.

Liana, a sociologist, cannot stop thinking about the risks: maybe if they go out, they will get sick, have to wait for the test results, worry about getting sicker and need to be hospitalized.

Furtado felt frustrated by what she considered to be relatives' recklessness, frustrated by people who drank in bars, disappointed when someone asked her why she had to lock herself up.

You want to tell them that your grandmother is in the hospital with nCoV infection and why doesn't anyone seem to care about this pandemic as much as you do?

"But instead, I just told them I wouldn't go out and I would see them in 2022," Furtado said.

Furtado never considered himself a person who was always afraid of illness or obsessed with cleanliness.