There are many ways for a young man to discover that the world is not arranged according to his expectations. Some learn it through war, some through marriage, and some—though it seems hardly fair—through a private interview with a man who speaks directly to God.

Jerry Wonder was nineteen years old when he was introduced to the last of these.

He had polished his shoes twice, said three prayers of increasing urgency, and made a quiet promise to the Almighty that whatever happened in that office, he would tell the truth.

He hoped the truth would be sufficient.

The hallway outside Apostle Hollar Nimbell’s office was narrow, dignified, and entirely unsympathetic to human anxiety.

A door opened.

“The Apostle will see you now.”

Jerry rose in a manner that suggested confidence, though he did not feel it, and entered.

Apostle Hollar Nimbell sat behind a desk large enough to suggest authority and old enough to prove it. He did not stand. He did not smile. He regarded Jerry as a man might regard a document he was about to approve, amend, or reject.

“Do you accept me,” the Apostle said, “as a prophet, seer, and revelator?”

Jerry had imagined a greeting. Perhaps even a handshake. What he received instead was a question that seemed to have only one correct answer and no room for hesitation.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

The Apostle nodded once, as if something invisible had been confirmed.

“Good.”

He selected a book from a neat stack, opened it, signed his name with practiced authority, and handed it across the desk.

Get Thee Behind Me, Satan!

“Sixth printing,” said the Apostle.

Jerry accepted it as though it were both a gift and a test, which it may well have been.

“Thank you, sir.”

They bowed their heads for a brief prayer. Jerry participated with sincerity and a certain caution, as one does when addressing a Being who may be listening more closely than usual.

When they raised their heads, the Apostle leaned forward.

“You’re from a farming community,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we must speak plainly.”

Now Jerry had been raised to expect plain speech in matters of consequence, but he had not expected it quite so soon.

“Have you,” said the Apostle, “ever engaged in sexual activity with barnyard animals?”

It is difficult to describe the precise effect of this question upon Jerry Wonder, though it may be said that it rearranged his understanding of the interview in a single instant.

“No, sir,” he said.

The Apostle studied him with interest.

“Not even a chicken?”

“No, sir.”

Jerry had never before considered the matter, and found it mildly unsettling that he should now be required to deny it with such clarity.

“I ask,” the Apostle continued, “because some young men—particularly those raised among livestock—have been known to experiment.”

“I have not experimented,” Jerry said.

This, he felt, was the safest possible position.

The Apostle seemed satisfied, or at least willing to proceed.

They continued in this fashion for some time, advancing through matters that Jerry had previously considered private, but now understood to be—at least temporarily—shared.

At length, the Apostle leaned back.

“You are not to discuss this conversation,” he said. “It is not secret. It is sacred.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jerry made a note, mentally, that sacred and secret could sometimes resemble each other closely enough to cause confusion.

He left the office holding the signed book, which now seemed heavier than before.

Outside, the air felt different. Not fresher, exactly. But larger.

That evening, at dinner, Jerry made the tactical error of attempting honesty.

His mother had prepared roast beef, which she regarded as suitable for both nourishment and important discussions.

“Well?” she said. “How did it go?”

Jerry considered several possible answers, most of which were shorter than the truth.

“It was… thorough,” he said.

His father, who believed that most important matters improved with detail, looked up with interest.

“Thorough how?”

Jerry hesitated. The Apostle had been quite clear on the subject of discussing the interview. It was not secret. It was sacred.

Which meant, Jerry supposed, that it could be discussed carefully, in the right spirit, and possibly at the dinner table.

“He asked questions,” Jerry said.

“That’s what interviews are for,” his father said. “What kind of questions?”

Jerry set down his fork.

“Well,” he said, “he wanted to know about my conduct.”

His mother nodded approvingly. “Of course he did.”

“And,” Jerry continued, “he asked if I had ever engaged in… inappropriate behavior.”

His father leaned back slightly. “That would be expected.”

Jerry took a breath.

“With barnyard animals.”

There was a pause.

His mother blinked.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What?”

“He asked,” Jerry said carefully, “if I had ever engaged in sexual activity with barnyard animals.”

Another pause.

This one longer.

His father set down his knife.

“Well,” he said slowly, “that’s… efficient.”

His mother looked horrified.

“Why would he ask you something like that?”

Jerry felt, at this point, that he was merely the messenger.

“He said that some young men,” Jerry explained, “particularly those raised among livestock, have been known to experiment.”

His father nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose if you’re going to ask the question,” he said, “you might as well ask it plainly.”

His mother turned to him.

“You don’t find this disturbing?”

His father considered this.

“I find it… memorable,” he said.

“This is not funny.”

Jerry, who had been doing his best to remain respectful, felt something shift.

Whatever it was, he began—despite himself—to laugh.

His father held his expression for a moment longer, then joined him.

It was not loud laughter. It was the kind that tries to remain private and fails.

His mother stood up from the table.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” she said, “but I want it to stop.”

She began clearing the dishes with decisive efficiency.

“That was a sacred interview,” she added. “It is not something to laugh about.”

Jerry made an effort to compose himself.

“Yes, Mother.”

After a moment, she looked at him.

“I think you should go to your room.”

Jerry stood.

“Yes, Mother.”

He sat on his bed and considered the day.

First, that the path to spiritual service might include questions he had never imagined.

Second, that the truth, while useful, required careful handling.

And third—though he would not have admitted it aloud—that whatever the future held, it was unlikely to be dull.