By day, the playground was a rush of voices and bodies — the crowded thump of the other children, one moment blurring into another, voices stretched tight as a scream.

But now . . . now, he could hear the breath of the wind, the rustle of the leaves, the gentle click of the swings knocking against each other.

He ought to be getting home. 

His mother would be worried. 

— from The Red Boy