Soap and water and common sense are the best disinfectants.

Host: The hospital hallway was white, sterile, and humming with the low sound of machines that breathed in rhythm with the living. The sunlight from the windows was pale, filtered through a thin layer of frost. A clock ticked above the reception desk, its sound almost merciless in its consistency.

Jack stood by the vending machine, hands in his coat pockets, his face drawn, eyes the color of rainclouds that never cleared. Jeeny approached, a clipboard in one hand, her hair tied back, her eyes tired but bright — the kind of brightness that comes not from rest, but from resolve.

Jeeny: “William Osler once said, ‘Soap and water and common sense are the best disinfectants.’”

Jack: “He said that a century ago. And still, the world’s been choking on plagues ever since — disease, corruption, ignorance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because we’ve forgotten the last part — the common sense.”

Jack: “Or maybe we’ve just evolved beyond simplicity. Soap and water don’t cure the kind of filth that lives in the mind.”

Jeeny: “But it’s a start, Jack. You can’t heal the world if you can’t even wash your own hands.”

Jack: “You talk like you’re still fighting a war we’ve already lost. People don’t want cleanliness — they want comfort. They’d rather sanitize the surface than face the rot.”

Host: A nurse walked by, her gloves snapping, the smell of alcohol and antiseptic lingering like a ghost. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead — cold, unforgiving. A child’s laughter echoed from the pediatric ward, then faded, leaving behind an emptiness that felt like a question no one could answer.

Jeeny: “You think simplicity is naïve, don’t you?”

Jack: “I think it’s dangerous. The world isn’t simple, Jeeny. Not anymore. You can’t wash away greed, or lies, or hate with a bar of soap.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can start there. That’s what Osler meant — not cleaning just the body, but clearing the mind. The act itself is symbolic — a ritual of respect for life.”

Jack: “Symbolic gestures are useless when people are dying. You think handwashing saves the world? Try telling that to the politicians who hoard the vaccines, or the executives who profit from sickness.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, every nurse, every doctor, every mother knows — you start with soap. Because it’s the one thing that’s always worked. The one truth that hasn’t changed in a hundred years.”

Host: Jack sighed, pressing his thumb against the vending machine as if to steady himself. His reflection stared back at him in the glass — tired, grey, and blurred. Jeeny watched him quietly, her eyes softening, her breath slow.

Jack: “You sound like my grandmother. She used to say the same thing — wash your hands, clear your head. But what good did that do her? She died with her faith in humanity still intact — and look where it’s gotten us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about results, Jack. Maybe it’s about discipline — about doing the small things right, even when the world keeps doing the big things wrong.”

Jack: “Discipline doesn’t redeem us. Systems collapse, people lie, wars happen. The virus doesn’t care how often you wash.”

Jeeny: “But you do. That’s the point. The virus doesn’t care, but we do. And that’s what saves us — that instinct to clean, to heal, to try again. It’s not about soap, Jack. It’s about hope.”

Host: The rain had started outside, drumming against the windows like a soft, relentless heartbeat. The sound filled the corridor, drowning the machines for a moment. Jeeny stood, walking to the sink near the door, and turned on the water.

The stream was clear, gentle, steady.

Jeeny: “You see this?” she said, running her hands beneath it. “This is what Osler understood. Cleanliness isn’t just hygiene — it’s humility. It’s remembering that you’re not immune to dirt — that you can still stain, still carry something that hurts others.”

Jack: “So washing is repentance now?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. Every time you wash, you’re admitting that you’ve touched the world, and that it’s changed you — and you’re choosing to cleanse before you continue.”

Jack: “You talk about soap like it’s salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is — in its own small, ordinary way. Isn’t that what we’ve forgotten? That salvation starts in the ordinary?”

Host: Jack walked toward her, leaning against the sink, watching the water spiral down the drain. His hands stayed in his pockets, but his eyes followed the motion, lost, distant.

Jack: “Common sense,” he murmured. “That’s the real extinction, isn’t it? Not the diseases, not the wars — it’s the death of reason. Everyone’s got opinions, no one’s got sense.”

Jeeny: “Common sense isn’t common, Jack. It’s courage — the courage to do the simple thing when the world demands the dramatic. That’s why Osler called it a disinfectant — it clears the madness out of the room.”

Jack: “And yet here we are — mad, crowded, infected with our own opinions.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we all washed our hands, and our minds, and started over.”

Host: A moment of silence passed, filled only by the steady flow of water. Then Jack reached out, hesitated, and finally placed his hands beneath the stream. The water ran over his skin, cool, pure, real.

He closed his eyes, listening to the sound — the simplest, truest sound in the world.

Jack: “You know, for a second… it actually feels like it could all be that simple.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it always was. We just forgot how to believe in simple things.”

Jack: “Soap. Water. Sense.”

Jeeny: “The trinity we ignore, the one that’s been saving us since the beginning.”

Host: The rain stopped, and the sun broke through the window, striking the sink in a shaft of light so bright it made the steel shine like silver. Jack looked at his hands, clean, wet, shaking slightly — as if he’d just touched something holy.

Jeeny smiled, folding her clipboard against her chest.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack? Sometimes the world doesn’t need a miracle. Just a wash and a little wisdom.”

Jack: “And maybe a reminder that common sense is rarer than any cure.”

Host: They stood there, two souls in a hospital of machines and sterile walls, connected not by faith or science, but by a simple, ancient act — water, soap, and the will to stay human.

Outside, the world shimmered clean again — at least for a moment — as if reminded that even in the age of chaos, the simplest truths are still the purest disinfectants.