I love my government not least for the extent to which it leaves

Host: The afternoon sun bled through the tall windows of an old train station café, turning the dust in the air into drifting gold. The sound of engines and murmured conversations filled the space, a low, constant hum of human life moving somewhere — always somewhere else.

At a corner table, by a window that framed the tracks stretching endlessly toward the horizon, sat Jack and Jeeny. A pot of coffee steamed between them, its scent cutting through the metallic tang of travel. Jack’s jacket hung off the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up, revealing calloused hands that spoke of long work and longer opinions. Jeeny stirred sugar into her cup, her small frame half-shadowed by the curtain’s sway.

Outside, a flag fluttered above the station, caught between wind and stillness — like the very idea of freedom itself.

Jeeny: “John Updike once said, ‘I love my government not least for the extent to which it leaves me alone.’”

Jack: “Finally. Someone who gets it.”

Host: He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. His grey eyes reflected the light like cold steel — calm, but carrying the weight of too many opinions unsaid.

Jeeny: “You would love that quote, Jack.”

Jack: “What’s not to love? The best government is the one that stays out of my damn way.”

Host: The train whistle echoed through the station — a long, distant cry, like a reminder of departure. Jeeny smiled faintly, though her eyes were thoughtful, even sad.

Jeeny: “And what happens when it leaves someone too alone? When it decides freedom means silence, neglect, or abandonment?”
Jack: “Freedom’s supposed to be uncomfortable, Jeeny. It’s supposed to be yours, not managed. People need space to screw up. That’s how they learn.”
Jeeny: “That’s how they get crushed, too.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, the golden tone deepening to amber as the afternoon turned toward dusk. Jack’s coffee cup steamed, forgotten in front of him.

Jeeny: “You talk like freedom’s a wall keeping the world out. But sometimes people need the world to reach in — to help, to protect, to remind them they’re not invisible.”
Jack: “And who decides who needs protecting, Jeeny? Some bureaucrat in a suit who’s never worked a day in his life? I don’t need the government babysitting me. I pay my taxes so they’ll fix the damn roads, not fix my soul.”

Host: Jack’s voice rose slightly — not angry, but passionate, the way men speak when the truth burns close to pride.

Jeeny: “You think independence is purity. But what about compassion? A society that leaves everyone alone isn’t free — it’s fragmented. What about the people who can’t stand on their own yet? The sick, the poor, the children born into nothing?”
Jack: “They deserve help, sure. But not handcuffs dressed as help. Every time the government promises to ‘take care’ of you, it takes a piece of your will. Before long, you forget how to stand without leaning.”

Host: A pause. Outside, the train pulled in with a roar of iron and steam. The air trembled. A group of travelers passed by their table — voices, laughter, the smell of rain on coats. Then silence again, filled only by the low hum of old jazz from the café’s speakers.

Jeeny: “You sound like you want anarchy.”
Jack: “No. I want dignity.”
Jeeny: “Dignity needs structure. You can’t live in a society without some kind of shared order.”
Jack: “Shared order is fine. Controlled obedience isn’t.”

Host: The light dimmed as a cloud passed. For a moment, their faces were silhouettes against the gold window.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? The more the government claims to ‘care,’ the more invisible the individual becomes. They call it safety nets, but half the time it’s just surveillance in disguise.”
Jeeny: “And yet when disaster strikes — when your house burns, or you lose your job — who do you call, Jack? The same system you curse. You don’t hate government. You hate corruption.”
Jack: “I hate dependency. I hate how easily people trade freedom for comfort.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup. Her eyes softened, but her words carried fire.

Jeeny: “Comfort isn’t always cowardice. Sometimes it’s mercy. My mother used to say the measure of a society isn’t how much freedom the strong enjoy — it’s how much dignity the weak retain. That takes care, Jack. Real, human care.”
Jack: “But mercy without responsibility is slavery. You think you’re helping people — you’re just making them forget how to fight.”

Host: The train outside departed, leaving behind a faint vibration that trembled through the glass. The café lights flickered on — warm yellow against the blue twilight creeping in.

Jeeny: “You talk about fighting as if everyone has the strength to pick up a sword. But what if the sword’s too heavy?”
Jack: “Then teach them to lift it. Don’t take it away.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, stirring the flag above the platform again — its edges snapping sharply in the air, like punctuation in an unfinished argument.

Jeeny: “You want freedom to mean solitude. But humans aren’t built for solitude, Jack. Even wolves run in packs.”
Jack: “And even packs need space. Space to choose, to fail, to breathe. I don’t want to live in a world where every mistake is corrected by someone else’s law.”
Jeeny: “And I don’t want to live in a world where every wound is ignored in the name of self-reliance.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, charged. The rain began outside — softly at first, then steadily, a silver curtain falling against the glass. Their reflections shimmered in the window: two figures arguing over the definition of care, over the invisible lines that separate freedom from indifference.

Jack: “Maybe we’re both right. Maybe the best government isn’t the one that rules or rescues — it’s the one that remembers what it’s there for: to protect the boundary between help and control.”
Jeeny: “And to remember that even boundaries need doors, Jack. Not everyone can climb the wall of self-reliance.”
Jack: “Doors, sure. But not cages.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming mist against the windowpane. The café’s light grew warmer now, gentler. A few travelers lingered near the counter, their laughter faint. The flag outside drooped, heavy but still visible through the haze.

Jeeny: “You know, Updike’s line — it’s not really about government, is it? It’s about trust. Loving something enough to let it give you space.”
Jack: “And trusting it enough not to fill that space with control.”
Jeeny: “Maybe love and freedom are the same thing, then.”
Jack: “Only if both sides know when to stop touching.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly. The clock above the counter ticked toward evening. The trains had all left. Only the rain remained — steady, cleansing.

Jack finished his coffee and stood, slipping his jacket on. Jeeny followed, pausing to look out the window one last time.

Outside, the world kept moving — trains, lights, people — all seeking their own versions of freedom.

Jeeny: “So, Jack. If freedom means being left alone… what do you do with the loneliness?”
Jack: “You learn to make it yours.”

Host: The rainlight caught his words, turning them silver as they walked out the door — two shadows beneath a flickering sign, leaving behind the café’s warm hum for the wide, uncertain quiet of the open world.

And as the flag outside unfurled once more in the wind, it seemed to whisper a truth older than any government:
That freedom is not the absence of care —
but the courage to choose how much of it you can bear.