He floated up toward the swirling purple vortex. Inside the eye of the storm, he saw the manifestations of his old arrogance—a giant "YO" written in the clouds, the parting of the Red Sea soup bowl, the lottery numbers. The storm was a tantrum of misused divine energy.

Slowly, the purple turned to grey. The howling winds turned to a gentle breeze. The floating cars lowered gently to the pavement.

"In a way," God nodded. "You created ripples you didn't understand. Now, the ripples are becoming waves. The tear is in the fabric of free will. If that storm hits the harvest festival, it won't just destroy the town. It will erase the hope of everyone there."

"One more thing," God added as he began to fade away. "This time... there is no 'ABRACADABRA.' You have to actually do the work."

God snapped his fingers. A familiar surge of electricity rushed through Bruce’s veins. He felt the infinite knowledge of the cosmos flood his mind—the prayers of millions, the movement of atoms, the secrets of the stars. It was intoxicating and terrifying.

Bruce closed his eyes. He realized that fighting the storm with lightning or wind would only tear the world apart further. He had to soothe it. He had to listen to what the chaos wanted.

Bruce closed his eyes. He felt the presence of God one last time.