If you keep saying things are going to be bad, you have a good

Host: The afternoon sky hung low over the industrial district, a ceiling of pale steel and smog. The factory lot stretched wide and silent, broken only by the soft hum of machines cooling after a long day’s work. The air smelled faintly of oil, iron, and the distant promise of rain.

Inside the canteen, fluorescent lights flickered weakly above metal tables, their surfaces scratched with years of stories, arguments, and hopes that never quite materialized.

Jack sat there — sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a half-crushed cigarette pack resting beside his untouched coffee. His grey eyes carried the kind of weariness only realists mistake for wisdom.

Jeeny entered quietly, her jacket damp, her hair clinging to her face. She carried a folder under one arm, papers slightly warped from the drizzle outside. She saw Jack and gave a small, knowing smile — the kind that suggests both affection and worry.

Host: The storm light outside flickered once, then faded, leaving the world the color of dull silver. A storm was waiting — in the sky, in the air, and between them.

Jeeny: “Isaac Bashevis Singer once said, ‘If you keep saying things are going to be bad, you have a good chance of being a prophet.’”

Jack gave a short, dry laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Jack: “Then I guess I’m a prophet, Jeeny. Look around. Layoffs, rising prices, automation swallowing half the workforce — and people still pretending things will get better. It’s not pessimism. It’s pattern recognition.”

Jeeny set her folder down, her voice steady but gentle.
Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s surrender dressed up as intelligence.”

Jack: “It’s honesty.”

Jeeny: “No. Honesty tells the truth about what is. You predict what will be — and you make it worse by doing it.”

Host: A drop of rain hit the window, then another. The room’s hum felt heavier now, as though even the air were listening.

Jack: “You think words control the world?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes they do.”

Jack: “That’s superstition.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s psychology. You know what happens when a leader tells people a storm’s coming? They stop planting. And when they stop planting — the storm comes true.”

Jack leaned back, chair creaking, his expression hardening.
Jack: “That’s a nice metaphor. But I deal in reality. The factory’s cutting staff next month. The investors are panicking. That’s not my fault — it’s the market’s.”

Jeeny: “You tell that to every man here, and they’ll stop believing there’s a point in showing up. You want prophets, Jack? You’re creating them.”

Host: The light flickered, the rain tapping louder. Outside, a forklift sat abandoned, glistening under the storm’s reflection.

Jack’s voice dropped lower, rougher.
Jack: “You think I don’t wish it were different? You think I want to see things fall apart? I just don’t believe in lying to people. Hope is dangerous. It keeps them running toward cliffs.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism builds the cliffs higher.”

Jack looked at her, tired, but something inside him flinched — a small, unguarded truth she had struck.
Jack: “So what? You’d rather I tell them fairytales? Pretend everything’s fine?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather you remind them what’s still worth fighting for.”

Host: The pause that followed was like a crack in the storm — a moment where the world held its breath. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly, not from anger, but from the weight of what she believed.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the miners’ strike back in ’84? They said it was hopeless. The unions were weak, the government was stronger. But still — they showed up. Every day. And even though they lost, they changed something. They reminded people that hopelessness isn’t the same as truth.”

Jack: “And most of them never worked again.”

Jeeny: “And most of them never bowed again.”

Host: The rain hit harder, like drumbeats on a metal roof. The factory lights buzzed, then dimmed, throwing long shadows across the floor.

Jack rubbed his temples, voice heavy.
Jack: “You think optimism can rebuild this place? That if we just believe hard enough, the numbers will fix themselves?”

Jeeny: “Not belief. Action. But action dies without belief first. You can’t build anything if your first brick is despair.”

Host: The storm broke. Lightning flashed white across the windows, painting their faces in flickers of truth. Jeeny’s eyes burned with conviction; Jack’s reflected the dull metal of resignation.

Jack: “I used to think like you. Years ago. I thought we could turn things around. Then I watched three companies collapse under idealism. I watched good people lose everything because someone told them to ‘stay hopeful.’ So forgive me if I stopped preaching salvation.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you should start preaching responsibility instead. Singer didn’t mean blind optimism, Jack. He meant that words shape fate. Keep saying the ship’s sinking, and no one will grab the buckets. Keep saying the world’s doomed, and people stop building lifeboats.”

Jack: “So you’d rather lie?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather lead.”

Host: The thunder rolled across the sky, echoing her words, stretching them into the air. Jack stared down at his hands, then at the factory floor below, where empty workstations gleamed like ghostly reminders of a future he’d already declared lost.

Jack: “What if I can’t believe anymore?”

Jeeny’s voice softened, a thread of warmth amid the cold noise of the storm.
Jeeny: “Then borrow someone else’s belief until you can. That’s what people do. That’s what leaders do.”

Jack: “And what if it still goes wrong?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you failed building, not predicting.”

Host: The rain began to ease, turning into a gentle drizzle, soft enough to sound like forgiveness. The neon sign outside flickered back to life, washing the canteen in a tired but tender glow.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table.
Jack: “You really think optimism can change outcomes?”

Jeeny: “I think despair guarantees them.”

Jack: “You talk like faith is a strategy.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only one that keeps us from becoming the disaster we’re afraid of.”

Host: The wind sighed against the windows, carrying the faint smell of wet asphalt and steel. Jeeny’s eyes stayed on Jack’s, unyielding but kind.

Jack exhaled slowly, the cigarette between his fingers bending under its own ash.
Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too quick to predict endings.”

Jeeny smiled softly.
Jeeny: “Then start predicting beginnings.”

Host: The factory clock ticked above them, its hands slow but certain. Outside, the storm finally broke into silence, leaving the world washed and clean, as if everything bad had been briefly forgiven.

Jack looked toward the rain-slicked windows, then back at Jeeny.
Jack: “Alright, prophet. Maybe next time, I’ll try forecasting something better.”

Jeeny: “Then the world might finally start listening to you.”

Host: A small laugh escaped him — not bitter this time, but human, alive. He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke curling upward like a fragile promise.

As they rose to leave, the light flickered again — not in warning this time, but in renewal. The storm had passed. Outside, a faint sunset glow seeped through the clouds, thin as mercy, but still there.

Host: “Sometimes,” the voice whispered over the final image, “a prophet only needs to stop predicting the rain… for the sky to remember how to clear.”

And with that, Jack and Jeeny stepped out — two silhouettes against a wet world, walking not toward certainty, but toward possibility.