Because of the terrorist threat, the FBI and CIA have become as

Host:
The night had fallen quietly over Washington D.C., cloaking its monuments in a thin veil of fog. The streets glowed faintly under the orange haze of streetlights, and the river below the bridge shimmered like a secret the city was trying not to tell.

Inside a small, dim diner off Constitution Avenue, the smell of coffee, old leather, and rain-soaked coats hung in the air. The only sound was the hum of the jukebox that no one had fed quarters into in years.

At a booth by the window sat Jack, his grey eyes sharp but weary, a man carrying the weight of too many truths and not enough sleep. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absently, her dark eyes thoughtful, her posture both soft and unyielding — the look of someone who could see through both systems and souls.

Between them, on a folded page of a newspaper, rested the quote that had sparked their latest argument:

“Because of the terrorist threat, the FBI and CIA have become as important as the military in preserving our freedom. Yet while thanking our military is standard practice in American life, no one thinks of thanking the FBI, the CIA, or the rest of the intelligence community for keeping us safe since 9/11.”
— Ronald Kessler

The words lay there like a moral mirror, reflecting both duty and doubt.

Jeeny: softly “You have to admit — he has a point. The military wears its gratitude on its sleeve. But the ones in the shadows, the ones who intercept threats before we ever see them — they never get parades.”

Jack: leaning back, dryly “Yeah, there’s a reason for that. Parades are for the visible. You don’t thank the hand that spies; you thank the one that saves.”

Jeeny: frowning slightly “That’s an unfair distinction. The intelligence community saves people, too. Just without the noise. Without the medals. Sometimes the quiet kind of bravery is the hardest to live with.”

Host:
The diner clock ticked — a lonely, methodical rhythm, counting the seconds like a metronome for conscience. The neon sign outside flickered, washing their faces in alternating waves of red and blue light.

Jack: after a pause “Maybe. But secrecy asks for faith, Jeeny. And faith is hard to give when everything’s classified. The military fights wars we can see. The agencies fight ones we’re never sure exist.”

Jeeny: quietly, but firm “And that’s the point. You’re not supposed to see them. That’s how protection works. You only notice the walls when they fall.”

Jack: his voice lower now “But who builds those walls? Who decides what’s kept out — and what’s kept in?”

Jeeny: sighing “You don’t think they deserve gratitude?”

Jack: pausing, his tone softening “I think gratitude without accountability is worship. And worship of power — no matter how noble its purpose — is how democracies rot.”

Host:
Outside, a siren wailed faintly in the distance — not urgent, just part of the city’s eternal hum of unease. Inside, the air between them thickened, like the silence between two truths that refused to coexist peacefully.

Jeeny: leaning forward, her voice quieter now “You know, sometimes I think we only notice freedom when we start to lose it. The FBI, the CIA — they’re the invisible scaffolding. The ones who hold up the part of the sky we take for granted.”

Jack: looking at her, unblinking “And what happens when they start holding up the sky for themselves?”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze “Then it’s on us to remind them who they’re holding it for. But not with hatred. With understanding.”

Jack: half-smiling “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: softly, smiling back “It’s not. But simplicity doesn’t make it wrong.”

Host:
The waitress passed by, refilling their cups. The steam curled upward like faint ghosts of all the conversations that had ever happened in that booth — soldiers, lovers, journalists, ghosts of ideals still trying to stay alive.

Jack: staring at the cup “You know what bothers me, Jeeny? Gratitude’s easy when it’s clean. But the intelligence world isn’t clean. It’s shadows, compromises, moral debts. How do you thank someone for doing what you’d never forgive in daylight?”

Jeeny: softly, almost whispering “Maybe you don’t thank them for what they do. Maybe you thank them for what they carry — so we don’t have to.”

Jack: quietly, after a pause “And you think that’s noble?”

Jeeny: looking out the window, her reflection merging with the rain “No. It’s human.”

Host:
The neon light flickered again, painting their faces in red — like guilt, or blood, or maybe just truth exposed for a heartbeat too long.

Jack: leaning forward, voice low “You ever think we traded transparency for safety? That we started measuring freedom by how little we have to know?”

Jeeny: gently, her tone like a confession “Maybe. But maybe that’s what safety costs. Every kind of protection demands a little blindness.”

Jack: shaking his head “Blindness isn’t safety. It’s comfort. The kind you only realize is fragile when it breaks.”

Host:
A silence followed — long, delicate, like the kind that exists between two people who both might be right. The rain tapped harder now, drawing small rivers down the glass.

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself “Maybe gratitude isn’t about celebration. Maybe it’s about acknowledgment — just saying, ‘I see you,’ even when you can’t say ‘I approve.’”

Jack: nodding slowly “And maybe the best acknowledgment is vigilance — watching the watchers, not out of distrust, but out of respect for what power can become when it forgets why it was given.”

Host:
The jukebox clicked on accidentally, its static fading into a slow, lonely blues track. The notes filled the space between them, turning the air thick with melancholy — the kind of sound that understands both sacrifice and sorrow.

Jeeny: quietly, smiling faintly “So maybe we’re both right. We thank them — not with parades, but with honesty. Not with blind praise, but with the courage to keep them human.”

Jack: raising his cup slightly, a toast without ceremony “To the ones who live in the grey.”

Jeeny: clinking her cup against his “And to the ones who still see the color in it.”

Host:
Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and the city exhaled — its lights gleaming like a promise barely kept. Inside, the coffee cooled, but the warmth lingered — between words, between silence, between two people who knew the cost of both vigilance and gratitude.

And the narrator’s voice, low and steady, rose like a conscience speaking softly to a restless world:

That freedom is not just defended on battlefields,
but preserved in quiet rooms,
by unseen hands,
and tired eyes reading names we will never know.

That gratitude without scrutiny is worship,
but scrutiny without empathy is cruelty.

And perhaps Ronald Kessler’s words
were not just about national defense,
but about moral balance —
the thin, trembling line between thank you and be careful.

Host:
And so, beneath the hum of the diner’s last light,
Jack and Jeeny sat in thoughtful silence —
two souls trying to define the cost of peace
in a world where every truth hides in shadow.

Outside, the fog began to lift,
revealing a city that never truly sleeps —
only dreams with its eyes open,
guarded by those who keep its nightmares at bay.