The neighborhood park woke up under a pale blue sky. Swings creaked on their chains. The yellow slide shimmered like a sunbeam. A lonely seesaw tapped its heels against the woodchips.
His friend grinned, holding out three prizes: a turn on the swing, a trip down the slide, and a handful of holographic stickers. "These are yours," he said. Kay nodded and said, "Okay."
Then he heard it—a quiet sigh, thin as the wind. Kay turned. A boy with scuffed shoes sat alone on a bench, his eyes fixed on the empty seesaw.
Kay walked over, his red ball bouncing at his side. He held it out. "You can play too," he said. "Okay?" The boy didn't answer.
The boy just shook his head. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The wind whistled through the chain-link fence, a thin, lonely sound.
Later, at the sandbox, Kay scooped up glittering sand. The sand sparkled like gold dust in his hands. "For your castle," he said. "Okay?" The boy watched from the edge.
The boy watched the sand slip through Kay's fingers. "I don't like castles," he whispered. He rolled away on the seesaw with a lonely creak, leaving Kay standing alone.
Kay found the boy trying to tape a torn picture book back together. His tongue poked out in concentration. Without a word, Kay sat beside him, pulled out clear tape, and held it steady. The book snapped shut with a click. The boy looked up, eyes bright.