Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

lantern, a sleeping bag, some drawings, and empty chip bags,
and soda cans.
I look at him. “Why do you hide in the fountain when you
have this place?”
“Because they know about this place.”
He’s quick to answer, so he must know from experience.
How often does he hide? Is he always alone when he does? He
shouldn’t always be alone.
I walk to the railing facing Damon’s house and see some of
the party going on, but I’m too far away to recognize anyone
or hear any of the music.
He comes up to my side. “Why are you named Winter?”
“It’s a poem by Walter de la Mare,” I tell him, still taking
in the vast scenery as I recite part of it. “‘Thick draws the
dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon,
Over that sea of frozen foam, Floats the white moon.’”
I have the whole thing memorized, but he’s probably not
interested in hearing it. Any of my classmates who ask aren’t
interested, either.
“It describes winter,” I explain. “My mom said the poem
made a cold and bitter season seem pretty. She said the beauty
in life is what we live for, and it’s everywhere. You just have to
look closer.”
He just stares out beyond the railing, looking thoughtful.
“I’m not sure why she named me that, but I like it,” I add.
He sits down, dangling his legs over the sides, and props
his arms up over the wooden board nailed across to keep
people from falling, and I hesitate for about three seconds
before I join. I plant myself down next to him, hang my legs
over the side and laugh at the butterflies taking off in my
stomach.
I peer over the side, my head feeling a little dizzy, so I
draw back.