If you cast your bread upon the water and you have faith, you'll

Host: The city night buzzed like an electric sermon — neon lights flickering, sirens humming, the air thick with ambition and asphalt. From a high-rise rooftop, the world below looked like a restless ocean of dreams and desperation. A single billboard nearby glowed with a preacher’s smile and a gambler’s promise: “BELIEVE BIG.”

Jack stood at the edge of the rooftop, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching the traffic below twist like liquid gold. His coat collar up, his eyes distant, he looked like a man balancing between cynicism and confession. Jeeny leaned against the railing, her hair catching the neon, her expression alive — curious, knowing, untamed.

Between them, the city breathed.

Jeeny: “Don King once said, ‘If you cast your bread upon the water and you have faith, you’ll get back cash. If you don’t have faith, you’ll get soggy bread.’”

Jack: “Sounds like the gospel according to Wall Street.”

Host: A low laugh slipped from Jeeny — half amusement, half disbelief.

Jeeny: “It’s outrageous, isn’t it? But underneath the glitter and greed, there’s something true about it. Faith determines what you see — and what you get.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t turn bread into cash, Jeeny. Hustle does. You throw your bread out there, and you better be ready to swim after it yourself.”

Jeeny: “You really think life’s just business?”

Jack: “No. But I think Don King understood a dangerous truth — that belief and hustle look almost identical in the dark.”

Jeeny: “Except one feeds the soul, and the other feeds the ego.”

Jack: “Ego keeps you alive out here. You can’t buy dinner with purity.”

Host: The wind picked up, tugging at Jeeny’s coat, swirling the city’s heartbeat around them — music, voices, traffic, all folding into one steady rhythm of ambition.

Jeeny: “You know, the phrase comes from Ecclesiastes — ‘Cast your bread upon the waters, for you will find it after many days.’ Don King just… added capitalism to scripture.”

Jack: “He added realism. The world doesn’t pay out in miracles anymore, Jeeny. It pays in deals, chances, and people bold enough to believe they deserve more than soggy bread.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of it. He turned faith into transaction.”

Jack: “And maybe faith always was a transaction. You give the universe your trust, hoping it’ll pay you back in something tangible.”

Jeeny: “Then what happens when it doesn’t?”

Jack: “You learn to lower your expectations. That’s what experience is — faith after inflation.”

Host: The skyline pulsed, the lights blinking like coded prayers — promises of success whispered to the sky by those too afraid to pray aloud.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the difference between cynicism and faith. Cynicism expects soggy bread. Faith believes in miracles — even if they don’t come wrapped in cash.”

Jack: “So you think faith is supposed to make us rich in spirit?”

Jeeny: “Not rich. Full. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Tell that to the single mother who prays for rent money. Tell her faith will fill her.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it won’t pay the rent. But it might keep her from drowning in despair. You can’t deposit that in a bank, but it’s the only thing that keeps people standing.”

Host: The city noise softened, like a chorus lowering its volume for something sacred. Jack turned toward her, his face lined by the kind of tiredness that comes from knowing too much.

Jack: “You ever had faith in something that didn’t pay off?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Many times.”

Jack: “And you still believe?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because the alternative is emptiness.”

Jack: “Maybe emptiness is honest.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s cowardice dressed as wisdom.”

Host: A pause — sharp, charged, yet intimate. The kind that stretches between two souls standing on opposite shores of the same ocean.

Jack: “You think Don King believed in anything besides Don King?”

Jeeny: “I think he believed in audacity — in the power of believing too loudly to be ignored. And maybe that’s faith’s darker twin: confidence.”

Jack: “Confidence gets you further than prayer.”

Jeeny: “Until it doesn’t. Then all you have left is what you trusted in to begin with — yourself, or something higher.”

Host: The rain began to fall, slow and silver, dappling the concrete. A few dollar bills, dropped earlier from someone’s pocket, stuck to the wet ground below — limp, useless, paper without faith.

Jeeny: “See, that’s the thing. The bread we cast — our efforts, our hopes, our love — they only come back alive if we send them out believing they’ll mean something. Without that faith, they just sink.”

Jack: “Or feed someone else downstream.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s the beauty. You don’t always get your bread back. But someone does.”

Host: A neon sign blinked behind them — “FAITH IS RISK” — half of the letters flickering, as if the message itself was struggling to stay lit.

Jack: “You ever think faith’s just another gamble? A bet against the odds?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. But it’s the only gamble where losing still teaches you something.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Like patience. Like humility. Like the quiet courage to try again.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold. He looked out at the wet city below — the shimmering streets, the moving lights, the invisible millions trying to cast their own bread upon the waters.

Jack: “You know… I used to think faith was a tool. Something you used to get somewhere. But maybe it’s a place. A way of standing still without sinking.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. Faith isn’t currency, Jack. It’s buoyancy.”

Host: The rain fell harder, but neither moved. Their faces gleamed under the slick reflections of light — two souls illuminated not by success or clarity, but by the strange peace that comes from surrendering to mystery.

Jeeny: “You see, Don King wasn’t wrong — not completely. You cast your bread with faith, and life gives something back. But it’s never what you expect. Sometimes it’s cash. Sometimes it’s peace. Sometimes it’s just the strength to throw again.”

Jack: “And when it’s nothing?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the lesson was never about return — it was about release.”

Host: The rain tapered, leaving behind the clean, electric scent of renewal. Far below, a puddle caught a neon reflection: half blue, half red, like belief and doubt coexisting in fragile harmony.

Jack set his empty glass on the ledge, the last drop sliding off — disappearing into the dark.

Jack: “Faith and soggy bread. That’s the whole world, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every morning, we get to decide which one we’ll believe in.”

Host: They stood in silence — two figures against the skyline, against doubt itself — watching as the night throbbed with quiet possibility.

And for the briefest moment, as the city breathed and the rain fell soft,
even Jack looked like a man who might throw his bread again.

Fade out.