One of the first things they teach wannabe epidemiologists is the shape of the exponential growth curve—how epidemics spread slowly at first, and then take off like a rocketship as the numbers of infected people double, double, and double. But unless you’re actually fighting an outbreak, or are in one, that can all feel academic. If the exponential liftoff is happening somewhere else, it’s not happening to you. Add to that peculiar form of emotional distancing a heavy dose of disinformation and partisanship, and depending on where you live and what your information diet is like, even the Covid-19 pandemic could start to seem almost unreal.
In a crisis, health communication experts agree, different kinds of people need to hear different kinds of narratives about what’s going on. Broadly, truthful information delivered clearly and without panic—but also without undue optimism—is the way to maintain credibility. But some people in the audience need a more emotional connection to fully engage. According to survey data from the Pew Research Center, nine out of 10 Americans say that Covid-19 has affected their lives in some way. But that means 10 percent of Americans say it hasn’t. Pew also finds that almost 80 percent of Fox News viewers think the media has exaggerated the threat of the virus (we haven’t) and 7 percent of people aren’t really following the news about it at all. Even President Trump seems to think that only people who “sadly lost a family member or friend” will even remember Covid-19 when it’s all over. These numbers are fast-changing, but still, watching the pandemic unfold as news from a distant city or as lines and numbers on charts might be very different than being in a hotspot, or knowing someone who dies from the disease.
That raises a grim question: What’ll it take before everyone personally knows someone who died from Covid-19? As of this writing, more than 11,800 people have died from it in the United States. (And that death toll may be an undercount.) If knowing one of those people would make the pandemic concrete for someone—real and actionable—how many have to die before every American knows one of the dead?
In a time of relentlessly cold equations, this one may be the coldest. It also turns out to be hard to solve.
The easiest answer, the back-of-the-envelope sketch, requires figuring out how many people anyone in the US is likely to know. Take one death from a group of that size, then multiply whatever percentage that is by the total US population. So, for example, one readily-accepted count of how many people any one person knows comes from a rigorous analysis of Facebook data from 2011. It’s about 200. Using this rough metric, if 1 in every 200 Americans dies from Covid-19—a fatality rate of 0.5 percent—everyone in the US will know someone who has perished. With a national population of 327.2 million, that’s 1.6 million US deaths.
But we get into the weeds right away. Is 200 … right? A 2006 paper using survey data and statistical models to calculate the number of people the average person knows arrived at 750. The Columbia University statistician Andrew Gelman, one of the authors of that paper, came back in 2013 with another estimate based on a different survey: 600.
“Our analysis from 2011 was about Facebook friends, where the average was 200ish,” says Johan Ugander, a Stanford professor of management science and co-author of the 200-count paper. He notes that the median number of Facebook friends was only 99, which means that half of all people had fewer than 99 friends. If you use that number, it would take an American death count of 3.3 million before everyone in the US lost someone they knew. Of course, all this depends on your definition of friend. “If you switch to looser notions of ‘know someone,’ you can quickly get numbers like 750,” Ugander says. “It’s reasonable to think of friendship tie strength as an onion with many layers,”
Princeton mathematician Chris Sims used one of those larger numbers—Gelman’s estimate of 600—and calculations of Covid-19’s prevalence and fatality rate that were operative in late March, for a related calculation. He wrote that if the disease kills slightly less than 1 percent of everyone who gets it, and about 60 percent of a population gets infected, a person who knows 600 people has a 95 percent chance of knowing someone who will die of the disease. Or to put it another way, if 1 in 600 people die, that means the US will have about 546,000 deaths—scarily, not much more than twice the best-case range estimated by the White House, though the president and his advisors haven’t been clear on exactly how they arrived at their numbers.
Now the weeds get even thicker—even if, for simplicity’s sake, we stick with 1-in-200 as our ratio. “Covid death is unlikely to be uniform or random,” Ugander says. “We can expect people with more friends to be more likely to be exposed, and then also die, and expect there to be clustering in the deaths on the network, for all sorts of reasons.”
This relates to a statistical concept known as the friendship paradox—in your network, your friends probably have more friends than you. That’s not an insult; some people are nodes, the extroverted superspreaders of bonhomie, so they’re shared across multiple networks. Don’t be too jealous of these social butterflies. Their “centrality,” their internodal connectedness, has a price. Because they come into physical contact with more people, they’re more likely to get infected during an epidemic.