Each of us has about 40 chances to accomplish our goals in life.

Host: The field stretched endlessly beneath a bruised sky, a quilt of dull brown and gold, trembling under the weight of the coming rain. The last light of day slid across the earth, slow and dying, the way a memory fades when you hold it too tightly. Crows cried above the fence, and the faint smell of soil and smoke filled the air.

A battered truck stood by the edge of the field, its engine ticking in the cold. Jack leaned against it, his hands streaked with mud, his face lit by the orange flare of a cigarette. Jeeny stood a few steps away, holding a small notebook, her boots sinking slightly in the ground.

Host: It was harvest season — or what should have been. But the ground was half-barren, the crops thin. Years of effort seemed to dissolve into the wind.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How one year can undo ten.”

Jack: “That’s farming. You can do everything right and still lose.”

Jeeny: “Still doesn’t stop you from trying.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “That’s not trying, Jeeny. That’s survival.”

Host: She flipped open her notebook, her fingers trembling slightly from the cold.

Jeeny: “You know what Howard Buffett once said? ‘Each of us has about forty chances to accomplish our goals in life. Farmers have about forty growing seasons.’”

Jack: “Yeah. Forty chances to fail better.”

Jeeny: “Or forty chances to make something grow.”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Depends on the soil you start with.”

Host: The wind swept across the field, carrying bits of dust, leaves, and the faint smell of rain. A distant thunder murmured like the sound of a sleeping god. Jeeny looked out over the rows, her eyes soft but determined.

Jeeny: “You make it sound hopeless.”

Jack: “Realistic. You can’t force the earth to give what it doesn’t have.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can still choose what you plant.”

Jack: “Seeds don’t change the weather.”

Jeeny: “No. But the weather doesn’t change your hands either.”

Host: Jack turned to her, the faintest smile flickering on his lips. His eyes were tired — the kind of tired that comes not from the body, but from years of fighting something invisible.

Jack: “You always sound like you’re talking to the sky instead of to me.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe I’m talking to both.”

Host: The rain began as a whisper — soft drops hitting the dirt, darkening it in patches. The smell of wet earth rose like something sacred, something older than both of them.

Jeeny: “Forty chances, Jack. That’s not a lot when you think about it. Forty years, forty tries — and most of us spend the first ten just figuring out what we want.”

Jack: “And the next ten realizing we won’t get it.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that?”

Jack: “Look around. Half this land’s dying. People sell their farms to pay for seed they can’t afford. And the world keeps talking about growth — like it’s some eternal thing. Growth is just the earth’s way of letting you hope before it reminds you who’s in charge.”

Host: The rain grew steadier, each drop striking the metal of the truck like a slow, rhythmic heartbeat. Jeeny’s hair clung to her face, but she didn’t move. Her eyes were on him, bright and unwavering.

Jeeny: “You talk like it’s all luck. But maybe it’s not about control — maybe it’s about what you do with the little you get. Buffett wasn’t just talking about crops, Jack. He meant life. Every year, we get one season to try — to plant something, to build something, to love something. Forty chances before we fade back into the soil.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But poetry doesn’t feed you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it keeps you alive long enough to try again.”

Host: Jack flicked his cigarette into the wet grass, watching it hiss out. For a long moment, the only sound was the rain on the truck roof — soft, relentless, cleansing.

Jack: “You ever think about how small that number is? Forty. That’s it. I’ve already wasted half.”

Jeeny: “Then plant better seeds.”

Jack: “What if it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “Then make the last ones count.”

Host: A flash of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating their faces — one lined with fatigue, the other with quiet fire. Jeeny stepped closer, her voice low, her words deliberate.

Jeeny: “You know, I met a man once in Nebraska — a farmer in his eighties. I asked him if he ever thought about stopping. He said, ‘Why would I stop when I’ve only got two harvests left to get it right?’”

Jack: (softly) “That’s either wisdom or madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe that’s what hope is — stubborn madness.”

Host: The rain intensified now, turning the earth slick. Jack looked up, the drops streaking down his face like tears he didn’t admit to. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.

Jack: “You ever feel like you’re working someone else’s field? Like all your effort’s feeding a dream that isn’t yours?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Everyone does. But that’s the thing about growing — you can’t see what’s taking root until much later. You might never even see it bloom. But someone will.”

Jack: “That’s not much comfort.”

Jeeny: “It’s all the comfort there is.”

Host: She took a step closer, the rain wrapping them both in its cold embrace. The field behind them blurred into shadow, but the air between them glowed faintly with the color of twilight — blue, gold, and gray.

Jeeny: “Forty chances, Jack. Not forty guarantees. You can fail thirty-nine times and still grow something that matters on the fortieth.”

Jack: “And if the fortieth fails?”

Jeeny: “Then you plant anyway.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, distant and low, like the sound of the world breathing. Jack turned to face her fully now, his eyes softer, searching.

Jack: “You think that’s what keeps people going? The idea that maybe the next season will be different?”

Jeeny: “No. What keeps people going is the act itself — the planting, not the promise.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his hand brushing against hers, rough and calloused. The touch was brief, but it carried something wordless — understanding, maybe even peace.

Jack: “You really think forty’s enough?”

Jeeny: “If you live them honestly — it’s more than enough.”

Host: The storm began to ease, the rain thinning to a soft drizzle. In the distance, a strip of light broke through the clouds, laying itself gently across the ruined field. It was faint, but real — a fragile reminder that even the most exhausted soil remembers how to bloom.

Jeeny: “The harvest doesn’t measure your worth, Jack. The trying does.”

Host: He looked at her, then back at the field — the cracked, uneven land that had taken so much and still waited for more. His voice came quietly, almost reverently.

Jack: “Then I guess I’ll start again next spring.”

Jeeny: “Good. Just remember — you’ve still got chances left.”

Host: They stood there as the light stretched wider, washing the land in pale gold. The world was damp, broken, but still alive. And as the rain faded into silence, the earth seemed to exhale — whispering the same truth that had guided every farmer, every dreamer, every soul with dirt under their nails:

Forty chances are all we get — but one is always enough to change everything.