The Union, which can alone insure internal peace, and external

Host: The rain came down in hard, deliberate sheets, the kind that washed streets clean of memory and sky of color. The city slept uneasy that night — flags hanging heavy from old buildings, sirens echoing faintly through the distance, like the ghosts of drums from another century.

In the corner of an old warehouse, long since abandoned by industry, two figures stood under the flicker of a single lightbulb. A torn American flag hung behind them, half-hidden beneath years of dust and graffiti.

Jack stood near the window, staring out into the night, his coat damp, his eyes gray and distant — the kind of distant that holds both loyalty and loss. Jeeny stood by the old workbench, her hands resting on a faded newspaper clipping — an article quoting George B. McClellan:

“The Union, which can alone insure internal peace, and external security to each State, must and shall be preserved, cost what it may in time, treasure, and blood.”

Jeeny: softly reading the words aloud “Cost what it may in time, treasure, and blood.” She looks up at Jack. “You think that kind of conviction still exists?”

Jack: without turning around “Conviction still exists. It’s the clarity that’s gone.”

Host: The wind howled through the cracked windows, scattering a few loose papers across the floor. One caught on Jack’s boot, its ink blurred — a photograph of soldiers from a century and a half ago, frozen mid-march, their faces stern, unbroken.

Jeeny: “McClellan said those words during a time when this country was bleeding from both sides. Men killing men for the idea of unity.”

Jack: “Yeah. And he still believed the Union was worth every drop. That’s something we’ve forgotten — that unity isn’t born of agreement. It’s forged in conflict. Paid for in pain.”

Jeeny: crossing her arms “But isn’t there a point where the cost becomes too high? When preserving something means destroying what it stands for?”

Jack: “Maybe. But that’s the paradox, isn’t it? Peace isn’t the absence of blood — it’s the purpose behind it.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, throwing their shadows across the walls. For a brief second, it looked like two soldiers standing in a ruined fort.

Jeeny: “You sound like a general.”

Jack: half-smiling “No. Just someone who’s seen what happens when people stop believing in a common cause.”

Jeeny: “You think the Union — whatever that means now — still deserves that kind of sacrifice?”

Jack: “Yes. Because the moment we stop believing something greater than ourselves is worth dying for, we start dying for nothing.”

Host: His voice carried a weight that didn’t come from anger — but from remembrance. The warehouse fell silent, except for the faint drip of water through the ceiling.

Jeeny: “You make it sound noble. But McClellan’s words — they came at a time when brothers were killing brothers. When blood soaked the same soil both sides called home. Can unity born of such pain truly be called peace?”

Jack: “It’s the only kind that ever lasts. History doesn’t give out peace like charity. It demands it like a debt. And someone always pays.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes catching the light. The anger in her voice came not from opposition, but heartbreak.

Jeeny: “But what if the price is compassion? What if to preserve the Union we lose the very soul that made it worth preserving?”

Jack: turning sharply “Then it’s our duty to remember it — to rebuild it. You don’t abandon the ship because it’s leaking, Jeeny. You patch it, even if your hands bleed.”

Host: The rain outside softened, its rhythm slower now — steady, deliberate. The flag behind them stirred slightly in the draft, its torn edge whispering against the wall.

Jeeny: “You talk like the Union’s a living thing.”

Jack: “It is. It’s not a government or a set of laws — it’s a promise. One that every generation either keeps or breaks. McClellan understood that. He wasn’t fighting for territory — he was fighting for the idea that a nation could hold together without losing its soul.”

Jeeny: quietly “And yet, for all his conviction, he was replaced. History didn’t see him as the savior he thought he was.”

Jack: “Maybe history doesn’t need saviors. Just people who refuse to give up.”

Host: The sound of the rain faded completely, leaving only the hum of the bulb and the pulse of their breathing.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder if we’re still fighting that same war — just with different weapons?”

Jack: after a pause “Every damn day.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe unity isn’t something we preserve with blood anymore. Maybe now we preserve it with understanding. With patience. With truth.”

Jack: half-smiling, weary “Those are harder to spill than blood.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why they’re worth more.”

Host: A long silence settled, heavy and human. Jack walked toward the old flag, brushing his fingers across its faded fabric. It felt fragile — like memory, like principle — but still strong enough to hold.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? It’s not that people disagree. It’s that they’ve stopped believing disagreement is survivable.”

Jeeny: “It’s not too late. The Union — whatever it means to us now — isn’t preserved by soldiers anymore. It’s preserved by citizens. By people choosing to care.”

Host: Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor in it — a kind of moral fatigue that only those who still believe feel. Jack looked at her, and something softened in his expression.

Jack: “Maybe McClellan’s mistake was thinking the Union could be held by force alone. Maybe it has to be held by love too.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And love costs time, treasure, and blood — just in quieter ways.”

Host: The light above them flickered, then steadied. Outside, the first hint of dawn** touched** the edges of the sky, a thin line of pale gold cutting through the darkness.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever earn it — the peace he fought for?”

Jeeny: “Not earn it. Just keep earning it.”

Host: They stood side by side in the half-light, the torn flag behind them stirring like a tired but unbroken heartbeat. The world beyond the windows was still divided — in color, in class, in cause — but here, in this silent place where ideals had been spoken and argued and nearly forgotten, something fragile endured.

The Union — not as a nation of perfect agreement, but as a living covenant between flawed souls — still pulsed, still whispered.

And as the dawn rose, painting the cracked walls in soft gold, Jack and Jeeny turned toward the light, carrying with them the echo of McClellan’s vow —

that even in a fractured age, when truth and loyalty trembled, the promise of unity — however scarred, however costly — must and shall be preserved.