“Do you think we should call an adult?” I asked, thinking of my kind and practical middle-aged neighbor, when I was jolted by a sudden realization. We are the adults

I

was spending the afternoon at the park with a friend and our children, as we engaged in the sort of desultory conversation those informal meetings lent themselves to, punctuated by trips to wipe noses and kiss scraped knees and rescue nauseated children from the merry-go-round.

We were just up to the part of the conversation where we reject each other’s supper ideas — my kids would never touch that! — when the muffled sounds from the street below grew louder. I walked to the fence surrounding the park to investigate.

Two groups of teenage boys stood opposite each other, in a scene so obvious it could have been choreographed by a film director. There were raised voices; one boy balled his fists threateningly; I heard something about a missing bicycle. One side wore black pants and neat white button-down shirts; the other, bare heads and torn jeans. Arabs. Now this was more than a standoff between bored neighborhood boys; this had the potential to erupt into real danger at any moment. One boy raised his fists and shouted. His friend held him back — for the moment. I drew in my breath sharply, then turned to my friend.

“Do you think we should call an adult?” I asked, thinking of my kind and practical middle-aged neighbor, when I was jolted by a sudden realization.

We are the adults.

And then:

The world is in such big trouble.