They had come here for a small town fair — a nostalgic gathering Bill always loved. There were homemade pies, gleaming tractors, and kids chasing each other with balloons. A simpler time, Bill would have said. A better time.
Bill wiped his hands on a napkin, finished with his sandwich, and leaned back, a familiar glint in his eye.
“You know, son,” he said, “for all its flaws, this is still a free country. You can speak your mind, choose your own path, build something if you’ve got the guts. Nobody tells you who to be.”
Tom smiled faintly, not because he disagreed — but because he once believed it too.
"Yeah," he said, picking at the corner of the table, "that's the story we tell ourselves, isn't it?"
Bill raised an eyebrow. "Story?"
Tom shrugged. "It's true in theory. But in practice... who really gets the opportunities? It's not just hard workers. It's people who start three steps ahead. People who know the right people. People who inherit a fortune. Or just... happen to be lucky."
Bill grunted, clearly preparing a retort. But Tom went on, more thinking aloud than arguing.
"You know, Dad," Tom said, watching a kid run past with a balloon, "I’ve been thinking... we all get judged in this country — not officially, but constantly. Every door that opens, every offer you get, it depends on one thing: how much money people think you have."
Bill frowned. "What are you talking about?"
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"Money," Tom said simply. "Your bank balance. That’s your rating. That's your passport to better schools, better neighborhoods, better healthcare, better everything."
Bill folded his arms. "Well, sure. Money gives you choices. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," Tom said. "If the money always reflected effort. If it truly measured how much someone contributed to society. But it doesn't. Some people work themselves half to death and barely scrape by. Others inherit millions for doing nothing. Some find loopholes. Some outright cheat."
Bill looked away toward the fairgrounds. A boy was climbing a greasy pole, trying to grab a fluttering twenty-dollar bill at the top. His face was red with effort; a small crowd cheered him on.
"We act like everyone's free," Tom said quietly, "but the truth is, the more money you have, the more real freedom you have. You can buy your way out of trouble. You can buy better education, faster healthcare, better chances. It's not freedom for everyone — it's freedom for those who can afford it."
Bill stayed silent, tapping his fingers on the table.
"And the irony," Tom added, "is that we criticize other places for having official social credit scores, like it's dystopian. Meanwhile, we already have one — and a rather primitive one — just a single number. Your net worth. No nuance, no judgment of character, no recognition of who actually helps others or makes the world better."
He picked up a pebble from the ground and rolled it between his fingers.
"It's a rating system that doesn’t care if you stole, lied, inherited, or built something incredible. It only cares how much you have at the end. That's what determines how many doors open for you. That’s who gets heard. That’s who gets forgiven."
Bill shifted in his seat, uneasy. Not angry — just uncomfortable.
"Maybe it’s not perfect," Bill said after a while. "But it beats someone telling you what your worth is."
Tom nodded. "Sure. But maybe there's a middle ground. Maybe we could have a smarter way to recognize real contribution instead of just counting dollars. Because the more we reward profits at any cost... the more we encourage the wrong kind of success."
The boy had reached the top of the pole now, waving the bill triumphantly. The crowd erupted in cheers. Bill smiled despite himself.
"See?" he said. "Hard work pays off."
Tom smiled too, but with a trace of sadness, watching the sky slowly deepen into gold. "Sometimes it does," he agreed. "And sometimes the pole's greased just for you."