We were about halfway down the interstate when my Uber driver began to transubstantiate.

It came first in convulsions. His body jerked upward in sharp shocks, his hands trembled on the wheel. Then his eyes bulged and his jaws contracted into weird dimensions. “GRAAAAH!” he cried, as hair sprouted from his elbows and scalp in violent bushy spurts and his ever-shifting skin erupted in pink whorls and splotches. His bone structure contorted in liquid ways, his rosy cheeks shrivelled into hypnotic labyrinthine grooves, and his entire flesh seemed to age centuries in fast-forward. The Corolla smelt vaguely of stale bread and cheap red wine.

“URRGGGGH!” he clarified, kicking and screaming as waves of spasms gripped him. His arms lashed out in great fistful rockets, shattering the driver-side window, knocking his Burger King soda out of its cup holder, smacking me all over in indecent places, grabbing at my blouse and hair. The car was careening at seventy miles per hour along with traffic, and nobody was in control of it. I kept a tight grip on my purse.

“Sir?” I asked. I remembered his English was not good. “Are you … well?”

Then his eyes flashed, and the most incredible light shone out of them and pierced the windshield. He began to float above his seat in a state of complete serenity, and he spake portentous words in dead languages which echoed with acoustic brilliance, as if every surface in this Corolla had morphed into a perfect reflector. “I AM THE LORD THY GOD,” He intoned from everywhere around me.

Truly the Son of Man had returned to Earth. It was clear that He was no longer fit to operate a motor vehicle.

The car was now drifting across lanes, earning us furious honks from all across the freeway. If the rapidly developing disarray reached the ears of the Lord, it did not break His serenity one bit. There was no way this was ending well.

I kicked my legs over the centre console, pushing the Prince of Peace aside, and I grappled the steering wheel and fumbled it in my direction and slammed my heels into the brakes. Tires screeching, drivers swerving in a thick cloud of confusion, and collisions in the distance. By some divine miracle I managed to steer the battered Corolla onto the highway shoulder, bringing it to a stop as the bumper bashed the railings.

I looked askance at the Lamb of God, His holy face flush against the spiderweb cracks of what remained of the driver-side window. “Sir,” I said, “I’m afraid I can’t give you a five-star rating.”

The Anointed One said nothing. Then at once, blood streaming down His cheek, He ascended through the shattered moonroof, enveloped in a column of light so bright that I averted my eyes in fear of damaging them. When the blinding luminance died down I opened my eyes, but the Bread of Life had vanished into the firmament.

Two highway patrol officers were stepping over the bits of wreckage strewn across the highway, approaching me. They saw I was in the driver’s seat, in an unfamiliar car with unknown registration. The senior officer cleared her throat.

“Ma’am, can I see your licence?”

“I, uh, actually don’t have a licence.”

“Then can I see some ID?”

I reached into my purse and showed her my state ID.

“Miss Morales,” she said, matter-of-factly, “you are under arrest.”