Zeb's on his way home from the city, just him and a truckload of wood, bombin' along dirt roads, singin' and thinkin' about board feet, and if he's got enough two-by-eights and where should he put the winda and—BANG!—he smacks a porcupine right off the road. He slows down a little but there ain't much he can do now. He turns the radio up and starts diggin' around on the floor, tryin' to find his Rona mug before there's coffee everywhere and he hears someone say, "Watch the road."

Zeb jumps and looks up and out the winda but there ain't nothin' there. He frowns and looks beside him and there's a guy sittin' in the passenger seat, holdin' somethin' shaggy and black in his lap. Zeb stares at him.

“Watch the road,” the guy says again, so Zeb does and then he sneaks a peek and the guy's still there. And he shakes his head and rubs his eyes and remembers to look at the road and the guy's still there.

"Hi. I'm God," the guy says, all friendly and nice.

Zeb starts to tell him he don't look like God, wearing jeans and boots and a torn T-shirt and a John Deere cap over his long hair but then he thinks if this guy ain't God, he don't want to know who else could jest show up in his cab like that and so he shuts up and stares. Until he remembers the road.

Now Zeb ain't never talked to God up close and personal, and he tries not to bother God 'cept for important things. Mebbe later tonight he'll kick himself 'cause man, what a chance! But right now he's just thinkin' "shee-yoot!" He can't think of one durn thing to say to a God who looks like a dirty hitchhiker and is holdin' a dead porcupine in his lap.

"Ever see a porcupine?" God asks, finally, and Zeb is tryin' to figger out what to say, rememberin' the BANG!, when God smiles a bit and says, “Well I know you didn't see that one." Zeb relaxes a little, but not much.

God's quiet a bit and then he says, "The quills were difficult. The barbs had to be sharp enough to snag, but at just the right angle. And it was a bit of a decision, deciding on a color. I couldn't decide if they should be white or black, so finally I made them both colors.”

God's holdin' out a quill so Zeb takes it but then doesn't know what to do with it so now he's drivin' with a quill in his hand, tryin' to figger out what to say about the stripes that don't sound stupid, but God's still talkin'.

“I was kind of proud of the triggering mechanism. I love variety. I felt it was only fair to give them something to compensate for being so slow and having such a soft belly."

God suddenly shoves the porcupine at Zeb, who is all eyes on the road now, yessir, and says, "Go on, feel his belly. Soft as silk. That wasn't easy either."

Zeb tries to touch the belly and hold the quill and drive and thank—goodness he don't hit nothin' else. God's quiet now and Zeb looks over and God is strokin' the porcupine's ears and belly, and his eyes look damp. Zeb's thinkin', "what the—" and stops himself just in time but God don't seem to notice. Zeb stares through the cracked windshield tryin' to figger out what to say and he finally turns to God, but there ain't no one there, just the porcupine.

Zeb starts thinkin' about makin' things and the good solid feel of a saw vibratin' in his hands and that sweet spot when the hammer hits the nail just right. And then he thinks about standin' back and lookin' at what he's made and givin' that last solid shake and jest wantin' to show it to someone and maybe a rusted out pickup barrellin' onto the yard out of control...

Zeb stops the truck and gets his shovel outta the back, and some o' them brand-new two-by-fours. He digs a hole right there by the side of the road even though it's gettin' dark. He roots around in the mess on the floor of his truck and finds a grease pencil and writes on one piece of wood and nails the pieces together. He steps back and takes his ball cap off, looks at the cross he's hammered into the dirt:

S – O – R – Y.

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