I have just come from a couple of raids, where we had a very

Host:
The twilight street lay empty, a single lamp flickering slowly above a cobblestone alley. Wind whispered through a row of closed shopfronts, carrying the distant echo of boots on wood. A smell of soap and wet leather hung heavy in the air. Two figures stood opposite each other beneath the lamp — one tall, shadowed, hands clenched in the pockets of a coat; the other small, steady, fingers brushing a scar at the jaw. They had both just read a line pulled from an old column: “I have just come from a couple of raids, where we had a very lively time, and some of them had to pull their guns. I found it necessary to punch a few sports myself.” Richard Harding Davis had written it, and now the words shimmered like metal under the lamp.

Jeeny:
(softly) “He says he had a lively time during raids. He says he had to pull guns, and that he punched a few sports himself. Do you feel the danger in that sentence, Jack?”

Jack:
(flat) “It’s a report. A man telling a story about a job. Nothing more. Raids, guns, fists — all tools in a world that often demands them.”

Host:
A cat slipped from a shadow, its eyes reflecting the lamp’s glow. Jeeny’s hand tightened on the scar, and Jack’s jaw tensed like a trap. The lamp produced a half-light that divided their faces into honesty and defense.

Jeeny:
(angry, then pleading) “But why call it a lively time? That word makes violence sound like a game. When you say you had a lively time, you treat people like props. You make pain into entertainment.”

Jack:
(sharp) “Language is simple, Jeeny. Men speak that way when they survive. They lighten the weight of fear with jokes, they pack danger into stories so they can sleep at night. It’s not entertainment — it’s mechanism.”

Host:
A drop of rain touched the lamp and skittered down its glass. Jeeny looked like she might step forward and touch Jack’s coat, to prove he was real and not a defense built of reasons.

Jeeny:
(voice trembling) “When a child plays sports, they learn teamwork, joy, fairness. When an adult says they ‘punched a few sports,’ it feels like that childhood was stolen, replaced with brutality. How do you make that swap and still call it lively?”

Jack:
(cynical) “Words change. Sports become punches when the rules change. The child is naive; the adult is realistic. You can’t run the world with poems.”

Jeeny:
(soft fire) “But you can’t build a world that lasts on fear either. If you only have strategy and force, what meaning remains?”

Host:
The rain grew heavier, drumming a pattern on the cobblestones like fingers tapping an urgent morse. For a moment the city seemed to listen to their argument, holding its breath between drops.

Jack:
(leaning in) “What do you want, Jeeny? That he turned a raid into a recreation? That he lied about fear? Maybe he needed to laugh so he could survive. Maybe the laughter kept him human.”

Jeeny:
“You keep saying survive as if survival absolves everything. But there’s a line between survivor and tyrant. When you start punching to prove a point, you’re not surviving anymore — you’re inflicting. That’s a choice, Jack.”

Host:
A bus roared past them, spraying a wall of water. The lamp flickered and both of their faces shifted, like masks being readjusted. Jack’s eyes went distant for a heartbeat, as if he were seeing something from a past raid flashed across his mind.

Jack:
(quiet) “Sometimes the choice is made for you. You’re thrown into a moment where decision is instant. You either act or you die. You can’t pretend there’s time for moral lectures then.”

Jeeny:
(soft, pressing) “Then tell me about that instant. Tell me what it felt like to have a gun pulled and to pull yours, to feel your fist close around someone’s jaw. Don’t hide it in gloss.”

Host:
The lamp’s light pooled onto a puddle, and Jeeny’s reflection was shaken by a wind that riffled the water. Jack sighed, a sound like metal being bent. He looked at his hands — not clenched now, but open, as if offering a memory.

Jack:
(honest, low) “It’s cold, Jeeny. The gun is cold. Your heart is loud and your hands move on instinct. You punch because you must stop the threat before it makes a sound too loud to bear. Afterwards, you joke because the joke is a bandage.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “And the bandage stays on until it becomes skin, and you forget the hurt underneath.”

Jack:
“You make it sound like forgetting is a crime.”

Jeeny:
“It’s a loss. A refusal to feel.”

Host:
Lightning riffed across a far horizon, and for a second their faces were etched in white. Jeeny stepped closer, the fierceness in her eyes now tempered by compassion.

Jeeny:
(whisper) “Maybe that man who said he had a lively time was trying to convince himself he was still alive. Maybe he was afraid that if he couldn’t call violence a game, he’d have to admit how numb he’d become.”

Jack:
(bare) “Maybe. Or maybe he was a coward who dressed his bragging up as gallantry.”

Jeeny:
(gently) “Do you think bragging is always a lie? Or can it be a shield for pain?”

Host:
A silence like a cloth was laid over the street. The rain slowed to a soft mist, and the city’s noises softened to a hum. Jack watched the mist as if it might wash something clean from his memory.

Jack:
(after a long beat) “I once told a story about breaking a man’s nose because it made the camp laugh. For a while, it felt like I’d kept my place. Then the man looked at me with eyes that weren’t afraid — just hurt — and I realized the laugh was masking a wound I’d caused. That image stayed.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “And what did you do with that image?”

Jack:
“I bottled it. I stored it. I kept telling myself the world needed my hands. But late at night, the image comes back. I see the man’s face, and I can’t punish the past.”

Host:
The lamp hissed and its light warmer now, turning the mist into a soft veil. Jeeny’s hand found Jack’s arm, a gesture that was not accusation but anchor.

Jeeny:
(earnest) “You can’t erase what’s been done, Jack. But you can choose not to make it your identity. The child who once played sports didn’t know about injury. He felt the rush of movement, the truth of play. You can let that memory be your guide again.”

Jack:
(smiling, small) “And you think I can just put down the gun and pick up a ball?”

Jeeny:
(laughing) “Not just pick it up — feel it. Not as a trophy, but as proof that your hands can create instead of destroy.”

Host:
A moment of lightness cut the tension. Jack’s mouth quivered, and his eye softened as if a rusted hinge had been oiled. The street seemed to breathe with them, its tone shifting from harsh gray to warm sepia.

Jack:
(quietly) “Maybe the man in the quote was trying to call back the child by telling a tough tale. Maybe he wanted to be seen as brave, because bravery is easier to wear than shame.”

Jeeny:
“And once the mask is on, it can be hard to take off. But you can. You just need to start with one small thing — a kick, a run, a game that has no stakes except joy.”

Host:
The mist lifted and a pale moon poked through a break in the clouds. They both looked up, and for the first time the city didn’t feel like a courtroom or a battlefield, but a place where change could begin.

Jack:
(straightening) “One game, then. No scores, no guns, no stories to make us tougher. Just running until our lungs burn, and then laughing because we still can.”

Jeeny:
(softly triumphant) “That’s all the child asks for.”

Host:
They moved down the alley, their steps light and unsure, like players taking the field after a long hiatus. The lamp’s light followed them, and the city watched as two figures began to run — not away from memory, but toward a small, stubborn, brilliant truth: that joy can be an antidote to violence, and that even the most battle-hardened hands can learn to play again.

The night held them in a quiet embrace, and the quote that had started their argument now lay soft on the pavement, a reminder that language can wound but also heal, depending on the hands that shape it.