In a Kansas diner at dawn, the truck driver beside me ordered eggs on toast. The waitress did not write it down. She cupped her hands and screamed toward the grease fire: ADAM AND EVE ON A RAFT! WRECK EM! From the smoke, a cook yelled back: SINKING THE RAFT NOW, HONEY! I gripped the edge of the formica table. What ritual was this? They had placed the first parents of mankind upon wooden planks and were preparing to drown them for four dollars and twenty cents. The waitress turned to me. Her pencil was tucked into her silver hair. What about you, hon? I had to intervene. A samurai cannot stand by while a vessel is destroyed. SPARE THE RAFT, I said, my voice steady. BUT TEST THE HUMANS. She stopped. She tilted her head. Her eyes went narrow with pure professional respect. She turned to the kitchen and shouted with the voice of an archangel: RESCUE THE RAFT! KEEP ADAM AND EVE ON THEIR FEET! DO NOT LET THEM DROWN! The kitchen went dead silent. Then the cook roared: THEY ARE STANDING TALL, DARLENE! WALKING OUT DRY! Two slices of thick sourdough arrived, toasted gold as armor. Balanced upon them were two sunny eggs, yellow yolks round and proud, trembling with life but holding the deck. I bowed to the plate. I had saved them. I go there every Tuesday. Darlene just looks at the grill and calls it out: HE IS HERE! READY THE ARK!