It must be a comfortable position but it is hardly the time to fall asleep in a deserted playground in the winter. 

The boy must be freezing, mustn't he? Warm clothes notwithstanding, thirty degrees is not an ideal temperature to be in. Unless the boy is homeless. Red hates the thought that settles in his brain. The boy looks so young to be homeless, to be abandoned. That's another thing he hates. Abandonment.

Red takes a step but stops. What is he about to do? Invite the boy to his house? While his Mum has accepted Red's regular bringing of strays to the house, he doubts a stray human will go over well. It is Christmas though. His Mum won't turn away a stranger in need, will she? Just for today. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.

Another step further but Red stops in his tracks when the boy raise his head to the sky. The pain that Red hadn't noticed tightens in his chest but he can breathe again. The boy isn't homeless. Red knows of the boy. Parkinson is his name. What is he doing in this neighbourhood? And what is he looking at?

Red twists around just in time to see an airplane flying away in the distance. He looks back and the boy—Parkinson, has his eyes closed.

I wonder what he's thinking.

Nothing more to do, Red turns on his heels and walks away. Before he rounds the corner, he takes a peek over his shoulder. The boy is spread eagle on the snow, staring dumbly at the clouds.