When a man has no reason to trust himself, he trusts in luck.

Host: The rain had stopped only a few minutes ago, leaving the street soaked and shimmering under the neon lights. Steam rose from the asphalt, curling like ghosts in the cold air. Inside a small downtown diner, the sound of a blues guitar hummed through an old radio, crackling between notes. The clock above the counter ticked past midnight. Jack sat at the corner booth, his grey eyes staring through the fogged window, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. Across from him, Jeeny wrapped her hands around a cup of coffee, watching the steam rise like thoughts escaping into the night.

Host: The air between them was tense, not hostile but heavy — the kind of silence that comes after truth has been spoken and neither knows what to do with it.

Jeeny: “You always act like the world is a game of numbers, Jack. But what about the heart? What about the faith that keeps people moving when the odds say they shouldn’t?”

Jack: “Faith?” (He smirks, leans back, voice low and sharp.) “Faith is what people fall back on when they’ve lost their reason. Just like luck. E. W. Howe said it best — ‘When a man has no reason to trust himself, he trusts in luck.’ That’s all it is, Jeeny. A crutch for the insecure.”

Host: The light from the neon sign flickered across Jack’s face, cutting through the shadows like a slow, silent heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s courage, Jack. Maybe trusting in luck is just another way of saying someone still believes in possibility, even when everything looks hopeless. Isn’t that what every dreamer has done since the beginning of time?”

Jack: “Dreamers also end up hungry and broken. You think luck helped the ones who failed? Luck is the excuse people give when they don’t have the discipline to build something real. You want examples? Think of the stock market crash in 1929. People trusted their gut, their so-called ‘lucky streak.’ They lost everything because they never trusted their own judgment.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, out of that ruin, people rebuilt. Not because of logic, but because of hope. Because they still believed maybe, just maybe, luck — or grace, if you’d rather — could turn things around. You talk about discipline, but where does humanity fit in that? Where does the unknown, the mystery of life, come in?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glowed in the dim light, her voice soft yet steady, like the sound of rain returning after silence. Jack watched her, expression hard to read, as if reason itself were being challenged by the quiet fire in her words.

Jack: “Mystery is fine in stories, Jeeny. In real life, it’s dangerous. The pilot who trusts in luck instead of his training crashes the plane. The doctor who trusts in chance instead of science loses the patient. You can’t run a life on dice rolls.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like life is an equation, Jack. But we’re not machines. We’re made of doubt, fear, and yes — a need to believe something beyond what we can measure. When a man has no reason to trust himself, maybe trusting in luck is a form of forgiveness — a way to still keep going.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, the radio fading into a low hum. Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room.

Jack: “Forgiveness?” (He laughs, dryly, the kind of laugh that hides an old wound.) “Luck doesn’t forgive. It just toys with you. It gives, then takes. You win once, and you think it means something. But it doesn’t. It’s just chance, and you mistake it for destiny.”

Jeeny: “Then why do people still risk everything for it? The artist who paints for years without being seen — isn’t he trusting in some kind of luck, that someday someone will notice? The soldier who makes it through war, when others fall beside him — doesn’t he thank luck, even when he can’t explain why he’s alive?”

Jack: “No. He thanks training, instinct, preparation. You’re romanticizing randomness. The artist paints because he can’t not paint, not because he trusts in luck. The soldier survives because he made the right choices, not because a coin flipped his way.”

Host: The rain began again, softly at first, then harder, until the sound filled every corner of the diner. Water traced down the window like tiny rivers, blurring the city lights outside.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right about most people, Jack. But not everyone fits your kind of world. Some people aren’t born with your kind of control. For them, trusting in luck isn’t weakness — it’s the only kind of strength they have left.”

Jack: (He pauses, eyes lowering to his hands, the muscles in his jaw tightening.) “So you’re saying ignorance is strength now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying faith is. There’s a difference. When you’ve lost reason, and everything inside you says ‘give up,’ trusting in luck — or whatever name you give it — is an act of defiance. It’s how people survive when logic says they shouldn’t.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, slow and heavy, like the smoke curling from a forgotten ashtray. Jack stared at her, expression shifting — not toward anger, but toward thought. The light caught the lines beneath his eyes, the small marks of nights without sleep.

Jack: “You think I don’t understand that? You think I haven’t trusted in luck before?” (His voice cracks slightly, then hardens again.) “Once. When I thought I could save my brother. He was on the wrong side of things. I thought if I just did the right thing, if I just hoped enough, maybe luck would turn. It didn’t. He’s gone. And luck — luck never showed up.”

Host: The room went still. Only the drip of rainwater from the roof remained, a slow, aching rhythm. Jeeny looked at him, her eyes softening, the fire giving way to quiet understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe it did, Jack. Just not in the way you wanted. Maybe luck isn’t something that gives us what we want — it gives us what we need to become who we are. You wouldn’t be sitting here, thinking, questioning, if you hadn’t lost him.”

Jack: (He exhales, a long, shaking breath.) “That’s a cruel kind of mercy, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Life’s mercy often is.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The rain softened again, turning into a faint, silver mist beyond the window. The light above them flickered, then steadied, casting their faces in a muted glow.

Jack: “So you think luck and faith are the same thing?”

Jeeny: “Not the same. But maybe they meet somewhere in the middle. Maybe luck is what faith looks like when we’ve forgotten how to pray.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the edges of his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough to break the darkness.

Jack: “You always manage to make madness sound poetic.”

Jeeny: (She laughs, softly.) “And you always make certainty sound like loneliness.”

Host: The rain stopped. The streetlights outside still glimmered, the puddles catching their light like small mirrors reflecting truth. Inside the diner, the clock ticked past one. The coffee had gone cold, but the room had warmed.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, two figures beneath the neon haze, each holding a fragment of the same truth — that a man who no longer trusts himself may turn to luck, not because he is weak, but because in that surrender lies the last spark of his will to live.

Host: Outside, a cab passed, its headlights cutting through the mist, and for a fleeting second, the light reflected in both their eyes — hope, fragile but real.