Most people don't know where their food comes from. We're

Host: The factory lights hummed low, a dim, endless buzz that filled the air like an invisible current. The floor was wet, slick with oil and sawdust, the smell of metal, sweat, and coffee drifting through the dark. Outside the open bay door, the city glowed faintly — orange haze and fog, the pulse of distant machines beating like the heart of some great, indifferent beast.

Jack leaned against a workbench, sleeves rolled up, his hands stained with grease. Jeeny stood near the electrical panel, her coat still damp from the rain, hair clinging to her cheek.

Host: It was well past midnight. The last shift had ended hours ago. Only the echo of work remained — tools, wrenches, and the faint hum of a refrigerator unit somewhere deep in the back.

Jack: “You ever think about how most people don’t know where any of this comes from?”

Jeeny: “What — the machines?”

Jack: “No. The lights. The food. The heat in their houses. They just press a button, flick a switch, and — boom — everything’s there. Like magic. Mike Rowe said it best: we’re confused about the fundamentals.”

Host: His voice carried a blend of resentment and sad admiration, like a man who’d built the world with his hands, only to watch others forget it ever needed building.

Jeeny: “Maybe people don’t think about it because they can’t afford to. They’re too busy surviving, Jack. Not everyone gets to see the wires behind the walls.”

Jack: “But that’s the problem, Jeeny. We live in a world built by people no one remembers. Ask anyone in the city where their food comes from — they’ll point to a store. Ask where their power comes from — they’ll shrug. We’ve become tourists in our own civilization.”

Host: The overhead bulb flickered, its light flashing against the metallic dust in the air. Jeeny stepped closer, arms folded, her voice low but steady.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like ignorance is a crime. But isn’t it also a kind of trust? People trust that someone’s growing the food, someone’s keeping the grid alive. That’s how society works — we depend on each other.”

Jack: “Dependence isn’t trust. It’s blindness.”

Jeeny: “Blindness?”

Jack: “Yeah. We’ve traded understanding for convenience. You know how many people think milk just appears in cartons? How many can’t change a tire, or cook a meal from scratch? We’re spoiled, Jeeny. And when the system fails, they’ll have no idea what to do.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, drumming against the tin roof in an irregular rhythm, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.

Jeeny: “You sound like an old man with a generator in his basement, waiting for the apocalypse.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just realistic. Look at what happened during the 2021 supply chain collapse — empty shelves, gas shortages, people panicking because their Amazon orders were late. That’s not resilience. That’s dependence turned to panic.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly — not mockery, but a kind of sad understanding.

Jeeny: “You think people should go back to farming?”

Jack: “Not everyone, no. But people should at least know. There’s a kind of respect that comes from knowing how things are made — how much labor and pain goes into every plate of food, every watt of electricity. When we lose that, we lose gratitude.”

Host: The fluorescent light flickered again, casting their shadows long and distorted across the concrete floor. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her words grew sharper.

Jeeny: “You talk about gratitude like it’s something we can measure. But not everyone has the luxury of thinking where things come from. Some people are just trying to eat whatever’s in front of them. You want them to admire the factory line while they’re starving?”

Jack: “No, I want them to understand what keeps them alive. Because that understanding is power. That’s how you stop being at the mercy of systems you don’t control.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what civilization is? Trusting in the systems others maintain? We can’t all be farmers and electricians. Some of us have to be teachers, artists, dreamers — the ones who imagine something beyond the machine.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but it wasn’t weakness. It was conviction — like a current of warmth moving through cold metal.

Jack: “Dreamers don’t feed people. Workers do. Without them, there’s nothing left to dream about.”

Jeeny: “But without dreams, there’s no reason to work.”

Host: A pause — long, electric, charged. The rain slowed, the world outside holding its breath.

Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who think poetry can keep the lights on.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten why they should.”

Host: Her words struck him harder than she meant. Jack’s hands flexed — the same hands that once built engines, repaired generators, wired homes. Hands that had known purpose, now trembling under the weight of her truth.

Jack: “I’m not against poetry, Jeeny. I’m just saying — we’ve built a society that doesn’t know how to fix itself. It’s dangerous. You pull one plug, and everything falls apart.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the cost of progress. We specialize, we depend, we evolve. You can’t hold everyone responsible for knowing how everything works.”

Jack: “But shouldn’t we want to know? Shouldn’t there be some curiosity? Some reverence? You eat a loaf of bread — shouldn’t you know the name of the field it came from?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But reverence doesn’t always come from knowledge. Sometimes it comes from humility — knowing that we can’t do it all. Trusting that someone else will keep the lights on while we try to make the world worth seeing when they do.”

Host: The silence that followed was almost holy. The machines seemed to listen. Even the rain had quieted.

Jack: “You’re good with words.”

Jeeny: “And you’re good with wires. Maybe that’s the balance we’ve forgotten — to build and to understand, to fix and to feel.”

Host: Jack looked up — the light above them steadied, humming quietly. It seemed symbolic somehow: the electric glow holding steady after so much flickering.

Jack: “When I was a kid,” he said softly, “my dad took me to the power plant where he worked. I was six. He showed me the turbines, the control panels — and he said, ‘Every time someone turns on a light, that’s us, son. We did that.’ I never forgot that feeling. That what we built — it mattered.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack. That’s exactly the connection I’m talking about — between what we make and what we feel. It’s not wrong to demand gratitude. It’s just wrong to demand it without empathy.”

Host: Jack smiled then — small, real, something human flickering behind the cynicism. The factory lights above reflected faintly in his grey eyes, as if the current itself flowed through him.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe knowing where things come from isn’t just about control. Maybe it’s about belonging.”

Jeeny: “Yes. When we forget the origins of things — our food, our power, even each other — we stop belonging to the world. We just… consume it.”

Host: The sound of the rain returned — softer now, rhythmic, almost tender. Outside, the first trace of dawn began to glow, faint light spilling through the doorway, brushing over the metal surfaces like forgiveness.

Jack: “You think we can fix that? The forgetting?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not all at once. But we can start by remembering. Every time we eat, every time we switch something on, we can pause — and thank the hands that made it possible.”

Jack: “You sound like a prayer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: The light widened, filling the room. The machines stood silent and shining, every bolt and cable catching the morning’s breath.

Jack: “Then here’s mine — for the ones who keep the world running, unseen.”

Jeeny: “And mine — for the ones who remember to say thank you.”

Host: The sun broke through the clouds, pouring into the factory, turning the grease and dust to gold. Two figures stood amid the hum of silence, bathed in the light of a new day, their faces no longer divided — just two sides of the same current, the builder and the believer, bound by the same invisible wire that keeps the world alive.