There's a lot of bitterness, there's a lot of anger out there. We

Host: The sun had long set over the town, leaving behind a sky stained with the faint orange glow of streetlamps and the deep blues of approaching night. The air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt and smoke from a nearby barbecue pit that hadn’t quite gone out. Somewhere, a dog barked—sharp, distant, lonely.

Host: Inside an old community hall, the kind that still had faded paint on the walls and folding chairs that creaked when you shifted your weight, Jack sat by the window, staring out at the darkened street. His grey eyes caught the flicker of passing headlights, but his mind was elsewhere.

Host: Jeeny stood at the podium, papers scattered before her, her shoulders tense but her expression calm. The meeting had just ended—neighbors arguing about budgets, about who was to blame for the failing park, for the broken lights, for the things that once worked and now didn’t. The room still hummed with leftover tension, the kind that sticks to walls long after voices fade.

Jeeny: “You can feel it, can’t you? The bitterness.”

Host: Jack didn’t answer at first. He kept his eyes on the window, tracing the blurred reflections of the streetlights on the wet glass.

Jack: “Bitterness? That’s a polite word for it. People are angry, Jeeny. And they have every right to be.”

Jeeny: “I know. But anger without healing just eats us alive.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it—the kind that comes from years of carrying other people’s pain.

Jack: “Healing doesn’t come cheap. You can’t just talk people into forgiveness. They’ve been ignored for too long. Promises broken, jobs gone, houses foreclosed. You think a few words about unity will fix that?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s where we have to start. Like Allen Boyd said, ‘There’s a lot of bitterness, there’s a lot of anger out there. We all have to work hard to heal those wounds.’”

Host: Jack gave a small, humorless laugh, his eyes still distant.

Jack: “Work hard, huh? Sounds nice in a speech. But in the real world, the ones who caused the wounds never do the healing.”

Jeeny: “Then we have to do it ourselves.”

Host: A faint wind rustled through the open window, carrying the smell of wet grass and diesel from a passing truck.

Jack: “You’re talking about forgiveness again.”

Jeeny: “I’m talking about survival.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness is choosing not to drown in what hurt you. Survival is remembering how to breathe despite it.”

Host: The lights above flickered, one buzzing faintly. Jeeny gathered her papers and sat beside Jack.

Jeeny: “You saw the way they looked at each other in there. Old friends who don’t talk anymore. Neighbors who won’t share fences. Everyone’s so tired of fighting, but no one knows how to stop.”

Jack: “Because stopping means trusting again. And trust is a luxury these days.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up.”

Jack: “I sound realistic.”

Host: He turned toward her finally. The lines around his eyes caught the dim light, evidence of years spent watching too much fall apart.

Jeeny: “You always think realism is wisdom. But sometimes it’s just fear wearing a smarter mask.”

Host: The words hung between them. Outside, the rain started again—soft at first, then steadier, a quiet rhythm tapping against the windowpane.

Jack: “Fear’s not the enemy, Jeeny. It keeps you alive.”

Jeeny: “Alive isn’t the same as living.”

Host: The rain grew louder. Drops slid down the glass, bending the light like tears that refused to fall straight.

Jack: “You talk about healing, but how do you heal betrayal? How do you forgive a world that keeps cutting deeper every year?”

Jeeny: “You start small. You heal what’s closest. A friend. A stranger. Yourself. Healing isn’t a grand gesture—it’s a quiet decision, made over and over.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred.”

Host: Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly.

Jack: “You really think kindness can fix what greed destroyed?”

Jeeny: “Kindness isn’t weakness, Jack. It’s resistance.”

Host: Her words hit him harder than she knew. He looked at her—really looked—and for the first time that evening, his eyes softened.

Jack: “You always find poetry in pain.”

Jeeny: “Because pain is where poetry starts.”

Host: A long pause filled the room, the kind that doesn’t need to be broken. Outside, the streetlights glowed against the wet asphalt, and the sound of the rain felt almost musical.

Jack: “You ever wonder if some wounds don’t want to heal?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t. Maybe they just want to be acknowledged.”

Jack: “And after that?”

Jeeny: “Then they stop bleeding. That’s enough.”

Host: Jack sighed—a long, weary sound that seemed to pull something heavy from his chest.

Jack: “I remember when the mill shut down. Men who’d worked there thirty years walked home like ghosts. My father among them. No severance, no apologies. Just ‘times have changed.’ You talk about healing, but you can’t rebuild dignity once it’s stolen.”

Jeeny: “You can. Just not with the same bricks.”

Host: She leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You build it with empathy. With time. With hands that remember how to hold instead of hurt.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting their shadows long across the wall.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s tired of pretending anger is strength.”

Host: He looked at her then, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his lips.

Jack: “Maybe anger’s the only thing that keeps people standing.”

Jeeny: “It keeps them standing, yes. But it doesn’t teach them how to walk forward.”

Host: The thunder rolled softly outside, like an old drumbeat marking the passage of something ancient and inevitable.

Jack: “So what do we do? Just hold hands and sing about peace?”

Jeeny: “No. We listen. We apologize. We show up when it’s hard. That’s the work. Healing isn’t about forgetting—it’s about remembering differently.”

Host: The rain eased again, leaving behind a faint mist against the window. The world outside was quieter now, softer, like it had been listening.

Jack: “You really believe we can heal all this?”

Jeeny: “Not all at once. But one wound at a time.”

Jack: “And what if it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “It’s never too late to choose tenderness.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders slumped, his voice lowering.

Jack: “You know, I used to think compassion was weakness. My old man taught me that. But I think maybe he was just afraid—afraid that if he cared too much, the world would break him.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: “Yeah. But not because he cared. Because he stopped.”

Host: A small smile touched Jeeny’s lips—sad, but real.

Jeeny: “Then maybe we start there. With remembering how to care again.”

Host: Outside, the last of the storm slipped away. A faint moonlight broke through the thinning clouds, silvering the wet street and the edges of their faces.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I think you might be right.”

Jeeny: “That’s rare.”

Jack: “Don’t get used to it.”

Host: She laughed softly, and for the first time that night, the room didn’t feel so heavy.

Host: The lights hummed gently, the air clearer now, as if something invisible had lifted. Through the window, the world looked bruised but breathing—like a wound that finally decided to heal.

Host: The camera would pull back then, slowly, catching the glint of moonlight on the wet glass, two silhouettes framed in stillness. And somewhere, beyond the noise of memory and regret, the faintest echo of Boyd’s truth lingered: we all have to work hard—to heal those wounds.