Reba McEntire came through town when I lived in Texas. She had

Host: The evening sky over Dallas was melting into amber and rose, the kind of sunset that felt like an old song fading into its last verse. The highway air shimmered with heat, and somewhere in the distance, a rodeo banner flapped lazily in the wind, its colors fading but its spirit still alive.

Inside a small roadside diner, the neon lights buzzed with warm nostalgia, flickering against the chrome surfaces and red vinyl seats. The jukebox in the corner played a faint country tune, something about dusty boots and dreams that never die.

At a corner booth, Jack sat across from Jeeny, a half-empty milkshake sweating beside him. He was leaning back, his grey eyes reflecting the neon pink from the sign outside that read: Texas Forever.

Jeeny’s voice, soft yet filled with that unmistakable spark, broke the hum of the room.

Jeeny: “LeAnn Rimes once said, ‘Reba McEntire came through town when I lived in Texas. She had this amazing theatrical show with, like, 13 different wardrobe changes. I was eight and I was like, Wow, I wanna do that!’”

Jack: “Thirteen wardrobe changes? That’s what impressed her? Not the music, not the story — the costumes.”

Host: A truck horn echoed faintly from the road outside. Jack’s tone was half amused, half weary, like a man who had seen too many illusions dressed as inspiration.

Jeeny: “You always hear the surface, Jack. What she saw wasn’t just costumes — it was transformation. A little girl watching someone become thirteen versions of herself in one night. That’s not vanity — that’s possibility.”

Jack: “Or it’s just theater. Smoke, mirrors, sequins, and good lighting. You really think a kid watching a stage show is discovering philosophy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Don’t you remember what it felt like to want something for the first time? That wild spark that said, ‘I want to do that’? That’s how every dream begins — not with logic, but with wonder.”

Host: The diner door opened, and the wind carried in a faint scent of dust and gasoline. A family passed by, their kids laughing, their faces glowing in the neon haze. Jeeny watched them, her eyes soft, her voice almost whispering.

Jeeny: “I think we underestimate moments like that — the ones that look small, but end up shaping everything. LeAnn saw Reba, saw a stage, saw a world where women could command a room. That eight-year-old didn’t just want to sing — she wanted to become.”

Jack: “Sure. And for every eight-year-old who says ‘I wanna do that,’ there are a thousand who never do. That’s the problem with inspiration — it’s cheap. Reality’s the expensive part.”

Jeeny: “But that’s where faith comes in. Inspiration is the spark, effort is the fire. Without the spark, no one ever lights anything.”

Host: Jack shifted, his hand wrapping around his coffee cup, the steam curling like a question mark between them. The neon sign outside flickered, throwing shadows that danced across his face.

Jack: “Faith doesn’t fill an empty fridge, Jeeny. I’ve seen people chase those sparks until they burn themselves out. Not everyone gets to live their dream on stage. Most just end up clapping from the dark.”

Jeeny: “And yet they still go to the show. Why? Because they need to see it’s possible. Because when someone stands under those lights — when a girl from a small town in Texas becomes a star — it tells every other dreamer that it’s not impossible. That’s what Reba did for LeAnn. That’s what LeAnn does for others now.”

Host: Her words lingered, like the slow fade of a song on vinyl. Jack looked away, out the window, where the streetlights had begun to flicker on, one by one, against the Texas dusk.

Jack: “You really believe that? That one person on a stage can change someone’s life?”

Jeeny: “I don’t believe it — I’ve seen it. Remember the time you gave that talk at the community center? The kid in the front row who wouldn’t look up until you told him your story? You didn’t know it, but he followed you out that day. I saw him. He wanted to be you. That’s your Reba moment.”

Host: Jack’s brows furrowed, a flicker of something old crossing his face — pride, maybe, or guilt, or the strange mix of both that memory often brings.

Jack: “That was just a talk. Words don’t change the world, Jeeny. Action does.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe words are just the beginning of action. Maybe that’s how the world moves — one inspired heart at a time.”

Host: The jukebox clicked, and suddenly Reba’s own voice filled the room, soft and clear — ‘Fancy, don’t let me down…’ The melody carried a kind of ghostly warmth, as if the song itself remembered who it had inspired.

Jeeny smiled, tilting her head toward the music.

Jeeny: “You hear that? That’s not just a song. That’s an echo. One artist’s fire lighting another’s. That’s how stories survive.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just nostalgia packaged in melody. People love to sell hope, Jeeny. It’s the best business out there.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s the one business that’s worth keeping alive.”

Host: The rain began, slow at first, tapping against the windows, turning the neon reflections into rivers of color. Jack sighed, his eyes softening, his voice lower now, less armor, more ache.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, I saw a documentary about Carl Sagan. The way he talked about the stars — it made me feel like the universe was reachable. I remember thinking, I wanna do that. I guess I did have my Reba moment.”

Jeeny: “See? We all have one. The moment the world turns from what is to what could be.”

Jack: “Yeah… I guess it’s not about the costumes after all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about the courage to change them — over and over — until you find the one that finally fits.”

Host: A long silence settled, the kind that only comes after something true has been spoken. Outside, the rain shimmered, washing the pavement in liquid light.

Jack reached for his wallet, dropped a few bills on the table, then looked up at Jeeny with a faint, tired smile.

Jack: “You ever think about how every dream starts small? One show, one voice, one spark — and the rest is just work?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But it’s that first spark that saves you from the dark.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, rising slowly through the diners’ haze — neon, rain, music, and the two of them, framed against it like figures in a quiet American painting. The jukebox continued to play, its light flickering, its song looping softly into memory.

As they stepped outside, the rain fell heavier, but Jeeny laughed, spinning once beneath the streetlight, her hair shining, her eyes alive — like an eight-year-old girl seeing Reba for the first time.

Host: And in that moment, the world seemed to echo with her laughter — bright, fleeting, believing — as if the universe itself had whispered, “Wow. I wanna do that.”