Except for Mr. D, who apparently feels it is his duty to go back to work and spew his toxic germs to all and sundry. He's the suit on the airplane in the movie about the virus that spreads across America--the guy responsible for spreading it beyond barricades and borders set up by the CDC.
Meanwhile, the wife and kids sit home, canceling all contact with other people (story hour, school, play dates, karate), whining and groaning, coughing and sneezing. The wife pulls together enough strength to throw fresh juice and apple slices on everyone before collapsing again on the couch. Twenty minutes later she doles out what remains of the cold medications and the harsh truth brings her to her knees: They're out of Tylenol Jr. and all the other great stuff procured from the pharmacy 20 minutes from their house. She'll have to drag the clan into the minivan and drive them into town where they'll sit semi-conscious in their car seats while she covers her face and heads into Public.
Scientific advancements can put a man on the moon, but can't find an over-the-counter cure for the common virus. But I'm not bitter. Not at all.