It seems a funny scheme, and one that has the capacity to backfire in myriad ways. What if the anticult groups don’t believe “Anita”? What if the tabloids decide that mass kidney-donating is a noble and heroic thing? What if I write unkindly about the group? Why does Dave want to make himself seem more sinister than he actually is?

“Your article will be like the resurrection,” says Dave. “But the crucifixion is the key thing. If we have to get crucified for the message to get out, that’s fine. And you’ll be the resurrection.”

Dave begins e-mailing me stern directives: “You DON’T HAVE TO BE THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE on this one. We can let the tabloids do that for us. We want them to have egg on their faces.”

I e-mail back. I tell Dave that I don’t feel comfortable with his plan. I feel as if I’m being controlled. Our relationship descends into an irascible silence. I’m sure there’s something philanthropic about his intention to donate a kidney. I’m certain that Robin, Casey, Susan, and the others have charitable motives. But when Dave e-mails me the details of his Machiavellian plot for media control—the Anita Foster leak, the ensuing tabloid frenzy, and then me cleaning it all up—I realize he’s also seeking revenge for his treatment over the Bobby Kelly incident.

And, it occurs to me, Dave has scheduled the leak for mid-March, after Robin and Casey’s operations, but before he, Susan, and the other Jesus Christians will have time to give their kidneys. Will the tabloid frenzy—if it occurs—scupper these plans?

“What if you become known as such a sinister cult that nobody wants your kidneys anymore?” I ask him.

“Yeah, we’ve considered that,” he replies. “I think the biggest concern, as Christians, is that we get the message out. Donating kidneys, for us, is really a minor thing. If we can’t do it, we can’t.”

“It’s a big deal for the recipients,” I snap.

There is a short silence.

“Yeah,” says Dave. “Um. I’m sure we could, uh, still find ways. We could go to another hospital. We could give false names. . . .”

At the Internet café in Sutton, Susan is checking her e-mails again. There are a few from C in Scotland, with whom Susan now corresponds on an almost daily basis. C has told Susan that she doesn’t need a kidney immediately and has suggested that if someone comes along with a more urgent need, Susan should give her kidney to them instead.

“I think that’s excellent,” says Susan. “A really good attitude.”

She reads from C’s latest: “Hey, never mind, I’m sure I’ll survive, and even if I don’t, that’s no big deal, either. You might think it seems a bit flippant on my part not to value my life, and I’m not getting all morbid on you—smiley face—it’s just that I believe if your time is up, it’s up, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Anyway, I hope you are well and continue to feel the way you do about donation of organs. I find your attitude most interesting and refreshing.”

“That’s very touching,” says Susan. “‘If your time is up, it’s up.’ She seems to have faced that reality and has a good attitude about it. I really like her.”

The problem is that Susan has also become friends with another potential recipient: Larry, in Aspen, Colorado. “I would gladly pay for your transportation to the US, all expenses,” he e-mailed her. “It is not legal to sell a kidney, but a good-Samaritan donation might be acceptable. Your gift would be a miracle. God bless you.”

Susan says she’s over the moon, but how to choose?

“They both seem so nice,” she says.

So she decides to write a list of questions to both C and Larry—“How long have you been on dialysis?” “What does your doctor think about the chances of you surviving a transplant operation?” And other questions, too: “Do you drink?” “Do you smoke?” She sends off the questions.

It is, of course, the DH’s ruling about altruistic kidney donations that has forced her into playing the role of the regulatory authority—or playing the role of an even higher authority than that. But I can’t help thinking that, whichever way this story unfolds, some people are going to get hurt.

I begin to think of the story that was handed to me as a poisoned chalice. I am, in part, supportive of the Jesus Christians’ scheme. But I feel queasy about the decision Susan has to make, and I feel queasy about Casey. He may be saving a life, but he’s only twenty-three, has been a follower for just a year, and still hasn’t told his mother. I e-mail Dave to suggest Casey should be given a cooling-off period—perhaps two months away from the group—before the operation.

I’m surprised to receive a friendly response.

“Thanks for being so frank,” writes Dave. “How about we give Casey a couple of months away from the group to cool off?”

I e-mail back to ask if he’s serious about this. He responds a few days later. Events have moved on, he says. Casey has now told his mother everything, and she has fully endorsed his decision: “Now that Casey’s mother is in agreement, there really should be no objection from anyone else. Like, he’s almost 24, has lived on his own for several years, has covered his body with tattoos and body-piercings without objections from his parents, and now that he has finally got his life together, he wants to do something really good with it by offering a kidney. If his parents are happy with it, then I don’t see any reason why we should tell him to run away and think about it.”

At the end of February, the video diary I asked Robin and Casey to film arrives. It is extraordinarily moving and vivid. It begins with them running at a track in Dallas. They run each morning. This is the day before they fly to Minneapolis. The thing that strikes me most is their smiles. Robin, especially, is always smiling.

Now Robin and Casey are having a snowball fight outside the hospital. Now they’re in twin beds at a Days Inn next to the hospital. Robin addresses the camera: “I’m two days away from donating a kidney to someone I’ve never met before. The reason I’m doing this comes from my personal belief in God. I guess there are a few hard questions—you’re probably wondering if I’ve thought about them. What happens if I donate a kidney to someone and it gets rejected? Obviously, I wouldn’t feel very happy about that. However, part of the idea of being an altruistic donor is that it’s a pure act of love. It’s like a donation to the human race.”

The camera clicks off.

It clicks back on again. Robin is still smiling. “Most kidney donations come from cadavers,” he says. “The recipient has to race in as quickly as possible. They all wear beepers. As soon as they’re beeped, they race to the hospital. The working life expectancy of a kidney harvested from a dead person is ten years, whereas a kidney from a live donor lasts at least twenty years. Twenty years is a long time. That’s a lease on life.”

Now they are at the hospital, having last-minute electrocardiograms and chest X-rays. Casey strips to his waist. “What’s this 777 mean?” asks the nurse, pointing to one of Casey’s many tattoos.

“It’s supposed to be the Lord’s number,” says Casey. “The opposite of 666.” He laughs. “I was too young to think about what I was doing.”

The nurse says, “You’re a brave man, Casey.”

Now, suddenly, it is the night before the operation. Robin and Casey are back at the hotel, preparing their superlaxative. “So when the surgeons get in there and move our guts around, there won’t be any accidents,” Robin explains. The superlaxative is called GoLYTELY (“Go Lightly”).

They need to drink half a gallon, one glass every ten minutes, “until our watery stool is clear and free of solid matter,” says Robin. It’s pineapple-flavored. They say “Cheers!” and start drinking.

Casey screws up his face. “It’s really bad,” he says.

“We’ll get there, buddy,” says Robin. He pats Casey lightly on the knee.