America's most dangerous diseases have developed an immunity to

Host: The city hall steps were empty except for the two of them. The flag above them swayed slow and solemn, its edges frayed by time and wind. A faint rain began to fall — not the cinematic kind, but the soft, patient drizzle that soaks the air in silence. The streetlights hummed, casting halos in the mist, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then disappeared into the dark.

Jack sat on the lower step, his coat collar turned up against the chill, a newspaper folded on his knee. Jeeny stood nearby beneath the awning, her hands tucked into her jacket, watching him — the kind of watching that isn’t judgment, but sorrow that has learned patience.

Jack read from the paper aloud, his voice low and steady.

Jack: “Cal Thomas said, ‘America’s most dangerous diseases have developed an immunity to politics. We suffer not from a failure of political organization or power, but a failure of love.’”

He folded the paper slowly, looking out into the empty square. “You know what I think, Jeeny? He’s right. We’ve turned compassion into a campaign slogan.”

Jeeny: “We’ve turned everything into a slogan.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but there was something like grief in it — a quiet fatigue that came from watching the same wounds reopen decade after decade.

Jeeny: “Politics tries to legislate morality, but it can’t manufacture empathy. You can’t vote someone into loving their neighbor.”

Jack: “No, but you can pass laws to make them behave like they do.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the same thing, Jack.”

Host: The rain thickened, tapping against the marble steps, gathering into small reflective pools that caught the city’s lights like broken constellations.

Jack: “You know what I see every day? People who treat politics like religion — shouting, believing, condemning. But nobody prays for understanding anymore. Nobody reaches across the divide unless it’s for a camera.”

Jeeny: “Because outrage feels righteous. Love just feels vulnerable.”

Host: The wind picked up, pushing the rain sideways. Jack pulled the collar of his coat tighter.

Jack: “You think we’ve always been like this? Or did we forget how to care somewhere along the way?”

Jeeny: “We didn’t forget. We outsourced it.”

Jack: “Outsourced?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To politicians, nonprofits, influencers — anyone who could care on our behalf so we wouldn’t have to get our hands dirty.”

Host: The streetlight nearest them flickered. The light stretched across their faces, carving honesty into the lines of exhaustion.

Jack: “So what’s the cure then? If the disease is lovelessness?”

Jeeny: “Love itself.”

Jack: “That’s too simple.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it scares people.”

Host: She stepped closer, her eyes meeting his. “You see, Jack — politics can fix roads, maybe even systems. But it can’t mend hearts. It can’t make someone look at a stranger and see themselves.”

Jack: “But love doesn’t scale. You can’t run a country on sentiment.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can’t sustain one without it either.”

Host: The rain softened now, falling more like a memory than weather. Across the square, a man in a threadbare coat rummaged through a trash bin. Neither of them looked away.

Jack: “You think that’s what he meant — ‘failure of love’?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not the romantic kind. The kind that sees hunger and doesn’t ask for credentials before feeding it.”

Host: A moment passed, long and unbroken. The sound of rain on stone filled the silence between them — the rhythm of a city still alive, still aching.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we were too ambitious? That we tried to build nations when we still can’t build trust?”

Jeeny: “That’s the human contradiction — we can send rockets to Mars, but we can’t make eye contact with someone who disagrees with us.”

Jack: “Because it’s easier to conquer distance than difference.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The flag snapped in the wind above them, its motion fierce, defiant — the illusion of unity made fabric.

Jeeny: “Love isn’t soft, Jack. It’s the hardest discipline there is. It demands we stay open when everything around us tells us to harden.”

Jack: “And politics thrives on hardening.”

Jeeny: “Because it confuses conviction with compassion. They’re not the same.”

Host: He stood, brushing the rain from his sleeves, his eyes still distant.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in systems — democracy, justice, equality. I thought if we just organized better, voted smarter, planned harder, we’d fix everything. But you can’t program empathy.”

Jeeny: “No. Because empathy isn’t data. It’s risk.”

Jack: “Risk?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Risking disappointment. Risking rejection. Risking seeing the world as it is, not how it flatters your side.”

Host: A car passed slowly through the wet street, its tires whispering over puddles. The glow of its headlights shimmered across the slick pavement.

Jack: “So maybe what he meant — the ‘failure of love’ — is that we’ve become too afraid to feel. We protect ourselves from compassion because it costs something.”

Jeeny: “It always does.”

Jack: “And politics promises compassion without cost.”

Jeeny: “Which is why it fails.”

Host: The rain had almost stopped. The city glistened faintly under the dim lamplight. Steam rose from the manholes, curling upward like thoughts the night itself was exhaling.

Jeeny: “You know, I think about America sometimes like a person — strong, gifted, but lonely. Always trying to prove its worth, always running from its wounds. What it really needs isn’t more power, Jack. It needs tenderness.”

Jack: “Tenderness doesn’t win elections.”

Jeeny: “No. But it might save lives.”

Host: Her words fell softly, like rain that had forgotten to make noise.

Jack looked at her — his face caught between admiration and melancholy. “You make it sound like love’s the only revolution left.”

Jeeny: “It is. And the only one that doesn’t need permission.”

Host: The clock tower nearby chimed the hour, echoing through the square like an old confession.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever get there? A world where love isn’t treated as weakness?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in our lifetime. But every time someone chooses kindness over contempt, it inches closer. It’s slow — like rain shaping stone.”

Host: The last of the drizzle slipped from the sky. The flag above them hung still, heavy and wet, but unmoving — like something that had finally stopped pretending to wave.

Jack picked up the folded newspaper again, running his fingers over the headline.

Jack: “A failure of love,” he repeated softly. “Maybe that’s the diagnosis. Not of a nation — but of us.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s be part of the cure.”

Host: He looked up, his grey eyes meeting hers — weary, but willing.

The streetlight flickered once, then steadied, illuminating their faces with quiet resolve.

They didn’t speak again. They didn’t need to. The camera pulled back slowly, the two of them framed beneath the great flag, two small silhouettes against the grand machinery of a sleeping republic.

And in the hush of that moment — rain cooling on the marble, hearts quietly defiant — Cal Thomas’s words hung in the air, as real as breath:

“We suffer not from a failure of politics, but from a failure of love.”

Not an accusation.
A diagnosis.
And, perhaps,
a prescription waiting to be filled.