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fruit. They would grow up and lay more eggs, and I would have all the omelettes I could eat. Better yet, once a week, on Shabbat (the Sabbath), I would roast a chicken, just like Señor Levinstein at the old-folks’ home. I would become a chicken farmer.

My life wouldn’t be boring. Each day I would have something different to do: hunting, farming, fishing. I still had the fishing line and one hook left. I would put together a slingshot. I could dig holes and cover them with brush. Perhaps I would trap a wild boar, a tapir, or even a jaguar. If I did get a jaguar, I would skin it and have a nice, warm fur coat.

I would be the king of the jungle, like Tarzan. I would live alone, but I wouldn’t go out of my mind. I wouldn’t let the loneliness drive me mad. I would dream my dreams, tell myself stories, let my mind wander endlessly, and never give up hope. Then summer would come, and the rains would stop, and I would once again be among other humans. I would be a celebrity. The modern-day Robinson Crusoe would be world famous. Someone would write a book about me, and it would be made into a movie, and I would get rich. I would build a big house, have my own ranch and a cook and everything else I could possibly desire.

But for the time being . . . if I could only have that omelette, even without the onions, without the cheese. I had been dreaming for hours, weaving