In a cove rimmed with bullrush and pickerel weed, Hank Lyons quietly set the paddle across the gunnels of the canoe and studied the mountainous thunderheads rising above blued-by-distance hills. A steamy southwest wind, however, assured him the impending showers would pass well beyond the pond. But even with the wind in his favor, for once, the avid outdoorsman was having difficulty concentrating on fishing.

After learning, in the early morning, that a “pipe bomb” had exploded in the Centennial Park of the Olympic Games, Hank hadn’t been able to put the horrendous news out of his mind. Each thought of it caused him to shake his head with disgust and disbelief. “What’s wrong with this world?” he said to his wife during breakfast. “All you hear about now are buildings and airplanes being blown up, kids being kidnapped and killed – stabbed and cut up while they cried and begged for their lives, women being beaten, raped, murdered, babies found dead and dismembered in dumpsters, animals butchered in cult rituals. This world has become a killing ground. But why? What in hell is wrong with these people?”

“I don’t know,” his wife answered, her voice edged with genuine concern. “It’s scary. All I can think of is Meggy and Matt and all these sickos grabbing kids out of supermarkets and malls, even schoolyards. It scares me. I can’t imagine what the parents of missing children must go through. I can’t even talk about it.” Mention of their grandchildren brought the specter of pedophiles closer to home. “I don’t know, either,” Hank said contemptuously. “All I know is that all this killing, all these slayings and slaughterings, all this rage and hatred and evil, it doesn’t happen only in Belfast or Beirut or Bosnia anymore. It’s here, in this country. We’re seeing it in New York, Oklahoma, Texas, Montana, Atlanta, you name it – and I hate to say it but it’s here in Maine.”

While driving to the pond, Hank continued stewing about the tide of insanity rising in this country: “It’s here in Maine, all right – here in Bangor, in fact. I was born and raised here and I never saw or heard anything the likes of what’s going on here now: a girl starved to death by her mother, kids dragging dogs behind cars, killing cats on the way to school and clubbing sheep to death in a pasture. God almighty, the more you hear, the worse it gets.

“But why?” the thought plagued Hank. As he began casting a small popping bug he recalled the time – he was still in grammar school – someone shot a pistol into the ceiling of a barroom located in Bangor’s once-notorious “Devil’s Half Acre,” an area eliminated by urban renewal. “That was a rough neighborhood,” Hank allowed, “but even so, the news of a shot being fired there traveled far and wide. In fact, for a long time afterward that barroom was pointed out as the place where a shot was fired. Today, though, people hereabouts pick up the paper and read unconcernedly about someone being shot or knifed or bludgeoned to death or of bodies being found in gravel pits or parking lots. Something’s wrong, all right. And the saddest part of it is these kids you hear about.

“They don’t seem to give a damn about anything. They’re like lost souls; no responsibility or accountability, no respect for the law, themselves, their parents, teachers, elders or anyone else, not even life itself.” Dropping the popper into a weedy pocket, Hank thought, “It’s unbelievable. Grammar school kids becoming alcoholics and druggies.

“But why? What’s causing it? Is it the single-parent, nobody-home situation common nowadays? Or the garbage dumped by television talk shows, with audiences applauding it? Or movies sensationalizing blood and brains splattered on ceilings and walls? I don’t know. But I know the terrorism and unconscionable killing and cruelty pervading this country is an indication of societal sickness, and I know kids are greatly influenced by example. As for these euphemistic excuses like `attention-deficit,’ in my opinion they hold about as much water as a landing net. Times may be changing, but `No’ is still the most difficult word for parents to say – and stick to.”

Resting the popper, Hank glanced toward the rain-darkened horizon where lightning danced to a thunderous ovation. The pond, however, sparkled with sunlight and cloud shadows crawled across the glowing-green hills like huge, gray caterpillars. The dramatic contrasts in light held his attention until he noticed another fisherman, a great blue heron, wading in shallows shaded by swamp maples already tinted scarlet. With a slow shake of his head, Hank thought, “It’s a shame so many kids nowadays never have the chance to get into the outdoors and get acquainted with Mother Nature like we did. I’ll bet that if they did, they’d forget about `hanging out at the mall’ in a hurry; and their values and attitudes and chances for enjoying and appreciating life would be a lot better for it.”

As he worked the popper in a series of gurgling motions, the thought of a bomb exploding at the Olympic games again burst in his mind. Directly, he spit into the water with disdain and mumbled, “`Course when they get the idiot who did it, you can bet his defense will be that he was rejected or abused as a child. And now we’re seeing the same kind of idiocy right here, and it’ll only get worse. A report came out a while ago that the use of drugs is increasing among Maine kids, and so is crime. So what we’re looking at is `The Way Life Should Be’ becoming the way life shouldn’t be.” The thought of it disturbed and consumed Hank so that he missed setting the hook when, with a sudden thrash, a bass hit the popper. “Something’s wrong, all right,” he grumbled. “When I can’t concentrate on fishing, something’s really wrong. But why?”