I think global warming is the gravest threat. With global

Host: The ocean was angry tonight. Waves crashed against the pier, sending up spray that glittered under the industrial lights of the harbor. The air smelled of salt, diesel, and something burned — not quite smoke, not quite metal, but the scent of a world changing, slowly, painfully.

The sky was a heavy bruise of gray and red, the kind of twilight that made everything look both alive and dying.

Jack stood at the edge of the pier, staring at the refineries across the water — their towers spitting fire into the dusk like ancient dragons pretending to be modern. Jeeny leaned against a rusted railing, a notebook in her hand, her dark hair whipped wild by the wind.

Host: The world around them was still spinning, but slower — as if the planet itself was tired of being misunderstood.

Jeeny: reading softly over the wind “Robert Kennedy Jr. said, ‘I think global warming is the gravest threat. With global warming, it’s the product of a war between old energy — between the carbon cronies, who, by the way, could not stay in business in a true free market capitalism.’”

Jack: grimly “He’s right about one thing — it’s a war. But we’re losing it to the people who profit from pretending it doesn’t exist.”

Jeeny: “That’s the part that breaks me. The war’s not fought in trenches anymore — it’s fought in lobby halls.”

Jack: “And the casualties don’t bleed. They melt.”

Host: The wind carried a faint hum of machinery — the sound of a power plant’s turbines turning, burning, breathing. It was the sound of civilization eating itself politely.

Jack: “You ever think about it? These flames — those stacks — they’re just the Earth’s fever made visible.”

Jeeny: “Then why are we still feeding it?”

Jack: “Because the medicine doesn’t make money.”

Host: Jeeny’s notebook flapped open in the wind, pages covered in notes, sketches of wind turbines and solar grids drawn beside quotes about greed, progress, and human blindness.

Jeeny: “Kennedy called them carbon cronies. I call them cowards. They built an empire out of smoke and called it prosperity.”

Jack: “Maybe they just didn’t see another way.”

Jeeny: “They saw it. They just didn’t like it. Renewable energy doesn’t make kings — it makes communities. There’s no power in equality.”

Jack: bitter laugh “You sound like you’re giving a speech.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like I’m tired of holding my breath.”

Host: The lights of the refinery flickered in the mist, the flames stretching higher, like defiance written in fire. Jack’s eyes followed the glow — not with admiration, but regret.

Jack: “You think capitalism killed the planet?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we killed capitalism. The real kind, the free kind. Kennedy was right — in a true market, carbon would’ve been priced out decades ago. But we let the market lie for us.”

Jack: “We subsidized our own extinction.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We built a system where destruction is profitable and survival is expensive.”

Host: The waves slammed harder against the pier, sending up mist that stung their faces. The sea seemed to roar in agreement, a wounded thing howling against its masters.

Jack: “You talk like it’s already too late.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But that doesn’t mean we stop fighting. Maybe that’s what makes us human — the audacity to plant trees in burning soil.”

Jack: “Poetic as always. But the fire’s faster than our roots.”

Jeeny: “Then we build better seeds.”

Host: Silence fell for a moment — the kind that wasn’t absence, but mourning. The kind that comes when people realize they’re standing inside the consequence.

Jack: “You really think people care? Half the world’s just trying to survive the week.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? The ones who did the least to cause it are the ones drowning first. And the ones with the power to stop it are still arguing over quarterly earnings.”

Jack: “You can’t shame them into empathy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can expose their comfort.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the water — dark, trembling, endless. Somewhere beneath that surface, the ocean was swallowing ice that had taken eons to make.

Jack: quietly “You ever wonder what the last generation will think of us?”

Jeeny: “They won’t think of us at all. They’ll just live with what we left.”

Jack: “That’s the worst punishment — to be remembered only by the damage.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s give them something else to remember. Even if it’s just a small, stubborn act of repair.”

Host: She tore a page from her notebook and handed it to him. On it was a sketch of the pier — except instead of smokestacks in the background, she had drawn trees. Windmills. Light.

Jack: looking at it “You think drawing it makes it real?”

Jeeny: “Someone has to imagine it before someone builds it.”

Jack: “And someone has to fund it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it starts with someone giving a damn.”

Host: The rain started — light at first, then steady. It washed over their faces, their hands, their paper dreams. The fire in the distance hissed but did not die.

Jack: “You ever think it’s ironic? The planet’s burning, and we still argue about politics.”

Jeeny: “That’s not irony. That’s denial in a tuxedo.”

Jack: “And where do we even begin?”

Jeeny: “With truth. With courage. With less talking about ‘markets’ and more about mothers who can’t breathe, children who can’t drink, homes that vanish into sea.”

Jack: nods slowly “You think Kennedy was angry when he said that?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was grieving. Grieving for a planet that forgot it was alive.”

Host: The rain blurred the lights into long streaks of gold and red. Jack folded the damp sketch carefully, tucking it into his jacket pocket like a small, fragile promise.

Jack: softly “You know, maybe he’s right. Maybe the fight isn’t between left and right anymore — it’s between life and profit.”

Jeeny: “And we both know which side history will write kindly about.”

Jack: “If there’s anyone left to write it.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Then let’s make sure there is.”

Host: The camera pulls back — the two of them standing at the pier’s edge, the storm gathering, the flames beyond still burning. The rain falls harder now, as if the sky itself is trying to wash away its guilt.

The sea moves beneath them, vast and ancient, whispering reminders of what it once was — of coral cities, ice continents, quiet skies.

Host: And somewhere between the fire and the rain, between despair and defiance, Jack and Jeeny stand — the skeptic and the believer — facing a planet on the brink, daring to imagine it whole again.

Because, as Robert Kennedy Jr. said, this is not just a war between energies,
but a war between eras — between those who consume the future
and those who protect it.

And perhaps the greatest act of hope left to us is this:
to keep building,
fighting,
and dreaming —
even while the world burns,
and the wind whispers,
“Choose what survives.”