We can't get to the $4 trillion in savings that we need by just

Host: The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the streets slick with reflections of city lights — orange, blue, electric white — like shattered stars caught in puddles. Inside a dim corner café, the air was heavy with the smell of burnt espresso and wet asphalt. A muted television above the counter replayed an old speech by Barack Obama. His voice — calm, deliberate, resonant — echoed faintly:
“We can’t get to the $4 trillion in savings that we need by just cutting the 12 percent of the budget that pays for things like medical research and education funding and food inspectors and the weather service. And we can’t just do it by making seniors pay more for Medicare.”

Jack sat by the window, one arm draped over the back of his chair, a half-finished coffee before him. The neon sign outside stuttered, casting brief flashes of red across his face. Jeeny sat opposite, her notebook open, the words half-formed in ink. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence between them.

Jeeny: “You know, I always loved that line. It’s… grounded. Practical. But still moral.”

Jack: “Moral?”
He leaned back, a sardonic edge curling his lips. “It’s arithmetic, Jeeny. You can’t spend what you don’t have. That’s not morality — it’s math.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, though her eyes held a quiet intensity — that kind that refuses to yield. She closed the notebook slowly, the sound of the paper brushing against wood.

Jeeny: “You always think in numbers. But numbers have consequences for people. That’s what Obama was saying. You can’t solve national debt by carving out the hearts of the vulnerable.”

Jack: “And yet the system’s built on sacrifices. Every empire, every economy. Someone always pays.”

Host: The rainwater outside shimmered under the streetlight, the faint ripple of a car passing breaking the reflection. Jeeny looked through the glass, her breath fogging the window slightly.

Jeeny: “Does it have to be the same people, though? The same teachers, scientists, retirees — always the ones asked to tighten their belts while the powerful loosen theirs?”

Jack: “That’s idealism. Someone has to bear the cost. The rich won’t. The poor can’t. The middle does — because they still believe the game’s fair.”

Jeeny: “And you call that realism?”

Jack: “I call it recognition.”

Host: The café fell into a heavy pause, broken only by the buzz of the television and the drip of a leaking pipe. Jeeny traced a small circle on her cup, her voice soft but resolute.

Jeeny: “You know, when Roosevelt built the New Deal, people said the same thing — that the nation couldn’t afford it. But it wasn’t about what the government could afford; it was about what the people couldn’t afford to lose — dignity, hope, work. And somehow, the math caught up to the morality.”

Jack: “That was a different time. The world was rebuilding then. Now we’re maintaining. Maintenance is never noble.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the problem — we’ve forgotten that maintaining fairness is a kind of heroism too.”

Host: Jack rubbed his jaw, his eyes shifting to the television, where Obama’s face was frozen mid-sentence — one hand raised, his expression halfway between concern and command. The flicker of light played across the lines of Jack’s face, revealing weariness that logic couldn’t hide.

Jack: “You think fairness pays the bills, Jeeny? You think compassion writes budgets?”

Jeeny: “I think compassion defines the kind of budgets we’re willing to live with.”

Jack: “Tell that to Congress.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to yourself.”

Host: Her words landed with quiet precision, like stones dropping into a deep well. Jack’s fingers tightened around his mug, the ceramic creaking slightly.

Jack: “You really believe there’s a moral compass left in politics?”

Jeeny: “Not in politics. In people. The same people who send their kids to underfunded schools, who work two jobs and still believe taxes should build hospitals, not bombs.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t balance a budget.”

Jeeny: “No. But without belief, the budget doesn’t matter.”

Host: The waitress, a tired woman with red hair, refilled their cups wordlessly. The steam rose again, fragile and fleeting, blurring their reflections in the window.

Jack: “You sound like every protest sign I’ve ever ignored.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like every cynic who used to care until it got inconvenient.”

Host: The air between them grew tight, dense — like the moment before a storm returns. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, though the sky remained dry.

Jack: “You talk about caring as if it feeds anyone. You can’t fund education with empathy, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “But you can destroy it with indifference, Jack.”

Host: The words hit hard — not loud, but heavy, undeniable. Jack looked down, his eyes tracing the ring his cup had left on the table, like a small record of something circular and endless.

Jeeny: “What Obama meant — what all good leaders mean — is that numbers are never neutral. They tell stories of what we value. You can measure a nation’s soul by what it chooses to cut.”

Jack: “And you think soul has any place in economics?”

Jeeny: “If it doesn’t, then economics is just organized greed.”

Host: The television clicked off suddenly, leaving the café in silence but for the hum of the lights and the soft patter of returning rain. Jeeny’s eyes met Jack’s — unwavering.

Jack: “You talk like the world’s still listening.”

Jeeny: “Someone always is. Maybe a student wondering why their teacher’s salary vanished in a vote. Maybe a scientist whose lab lost funding. Maybe a grandmother choosing between pills and heat. You think they don’t hear words like his? They do — because they’re living them.”

Jack: “You think that kind of suffering can be solved with speeches?”

Jeeny: “No. But speeches can remind us what we’ve forgotten — that suffering isn’t supposed to be normal.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicked away — not out of defiance, but something closer to unease. The rain outside intensified again, a sudden downpour against the glass. The streetlights blurred, their halos trembling in the watery world beyond.

Jack: “You always turn everything into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Because poetry’s the only way to talk about pain without losing hope.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment, then laughed softly — not mockingly, but with the tiredness of someone remembering how to believe. He reached for his wallet, pulled out a crumpled bill, and tossed it on the table.

Jack: “So what’s your solution, then? Spend more, believe harder, save the world with sentiment?”

Jeeny: “No. My solution’s simpler.”
She stood, gathering her notebook, the faint smile still there. “Remember that every number on that spreadsheet is a person. And make your math answer to your humanity.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed her as she moved toward the door. The rain reflected her silhouette — delicate yet certain. He sat there a moment longer, the TV screen now dark, the echoes of Obama’s words still hanging in the air like an unfinished chord.

He whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “Maybe it’s not arithmetic after all.”

Host: Outside, the city glowed through the rain, the puddles rippling under the neon haze. Jack rose, threw on his coat, and stepped into the night — the rain soft on his face, the world both weary and alive. Somewhere between logic and compassion, the truth waited — uncounted but undeniable.