African Americans make up about 13 percent of the U.S. population

Host: The streetlights of Baltimore flickered like tired hearts trying to beat against the darkness. A thin mist hung in the air, carrying the smell of rain, concrete, and hospital disinfectant. The city was quiet, but not peaceful—the kind of silence that comes after too many sirens, too many goodbyes.

Inside the 24-hour diner across from Mercy Hospital, a neon sign buzzed weakly. Its pink light bathed the cracked booth where Jack and Jeeny sat, their coffee cups half-empty, their faces drawn with the weight of something too heavy to ignore.

Jack wore a black coat, still damp from the rain. His grey eyes were tired, his hands restless. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair pulled back, her brown eyes reflecting both sorrow and defiance. The TV above the counter murmured the evening news—and then the anchor’s voice echoed softly across the diner:

“‘African Americans make up about 13 percent of the U.S. population but comprise 32 percent of patients treated for kidney failure, giving them a kidney failure rate that is 4.2 times greater than that of white Americans,’ said Health Secretary Xavier Becerra…”

The sound faded, but the sentence lingered—like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

Jack: “Every time I hear something like that, it just… I don’t even know what to say anymore.”

Jeeny: “Say something, Jack. Because silence is how this keeps happening.”

Jack: “And what good does talking do? Numbers are numbers. They’re not opinions. You can’t argue with math.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can argue with what creates those numbers.”

Host: The light above them flickered, casting their faces in uneven shadows. Outside, a bus groaned to a stop, its brakes screeching in the wet night.

Jack: “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t see the injustice? I do. But maybe it’s more complicated than just racism. There’s diet, genetics, access, culture—it’s a web, Jeeny. You can’t just point to one thing and say, ‘That’s it.’”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s always the same web—and always the same people getting caught in it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s just the reality. Some things are inevitable.”

Jeeny: “Inevitable?” Her voice sharpens, trembling. “You call suffering inevitable? You think a child being born into a neighborhood with no grocery store, no healthcare, no safe park is fate?”

Jack: “I didn’t say it’s right. I’m just saying that the world doesn’t hand out fairness evenly.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack—it creates the unfairness. It builds it, maintains it, profits from it.”

Host: The sound of a spoon clinking against the cup broke the moment. Jeeny’s eyes were wet, but her voice stayed steady, like a bridge over floodwater.

Jeeny: “My aunt was one of those numbers, Jack. She worked her whole life, two jobs, never smoked, never drank—and yet she died waiting for a transplant. They said there was a shortage, but there’s always a shortage when you’re Black and poor. When her name was finally called, her body couldn’t take it anymore.”

Jack: “I’m sorry, Jeeny… I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “No, you didn’t. Because for you, it’s statistics. For me, it’s family.”

Jack: “That’s not fair. I didn’t make the system.”

Jeeny: “No one ever thinks they did. But someone always benefits from it.”

Host: The diners around them spoke in low voices, laughing softly over their meals, oblivious to the storm at that one table. The coffee had gone cold, and so had the space between their words.

Jack: “So what’s the solution, then? Burn it all down? You talk about systems like they’re villains in a comic book. But life isn’t that simple.”

Jeeny: “No, it isn’t. But that’s not an excuse to keep pretending it’s too complex to change.”

Jack: “And you think change happens just because people believe it should?”

Jeeny: “It starts there. It always starts there. You think civil rights, voting rights, integration—you think any of that happened because someone did the math? No. It happened because people got angry, organized, and refused to accept ‘reality’ as final.”

Host: Her voice rose, drawing a few glances from the other tables, but she didn’t care. Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing, his fingers drumming on the table. The tension was thick, palpable, but beneath it, there was something else—a shared ache, a truth neither of them could fully face.

Jack: “You make it sound like people just need to ‘care more,’ and suddenly the hospitals will treat everyone equally. But what about the money, Jeeny? The infrastructure? The education? These aren’t problems you solve with feelings.”

Jeeny: “And yet every policy, every budget, every decision starts with someone’s feeling about who matters and who doesn’t.”

Jack: “So what, it’s all about morality?”

Jeeny: “It always was. Racism isn’t a flaw in the system; it’s the system’s reflection of our moral blindness.”

Host: The rain outside had stopped, but the streets still shimmered, reflecting the neon lights like wounded water. Jack watched it, his face half-lit, his expression caught between resistance and remorse.

Jack: “You know, I used to volunteer at a clinic back in Chicago. I saw kids come in with high blood pressure before they were even teenagers. But after a while, you stop asking why. You just try to patch the holes before the ship sinks.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy. You stop asking why. You stop looking at the patterns. Because the questions hurt too much.”

Jack: “You think I don’t feel that? You think I don’t want it to change?”

Jeeny: “Then want it loudly, Jack. Want it with action, not just awareness. Because awareness without responsibility is just another form of privilege.”

Host: Her words hung there—like smoke refusing to fade. Jack lowered his eyes, his hand tightening around the mug. His reflection in the window looked like a ghost of someone who had seen too much and still understood too little.

Then he spoke, his voice rough, but real.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I stopped asking because I was afraid the answers would break me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re supposed to. Maybe that’s the only way anything ever changes.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We listen. We learn. We act. Not as saviors, but as participants. You don’t fix a system by standing outside it—you change it from the inside, by refusing to pretend it’s fair.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a mission.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Host: The neon light flickered once more, then stabilized, casting a softer glow across their faces. The tension eased, replaced by a kind of quiet understanding—fragile, but true.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his voice low, but steady.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what perspective really is—not just stepping back from our own lives, but stepping closer to someone else’s.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Until their pain feels like your own.”

Jack: “And maybe then… maybe the numbers start to mean something more.”

Jeeny: “When the numbers become names, Jack—that’s when the world begins to heal.”

Host: Outside, the city breathed again. The rain had washed the streets clean, but not the memory. The lights of the hospital still glowed in the distance—a reminder of both wounds and hope.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their hands near the center of the table, not quite touching, but close enough for warmth to bridge the space between them.

In that moment, the world outside didn’t change—but something inside them did.

And sometimes, that’s where justice begins.