Render
By J.M. Snyder
The medical gauze was hot and itchy, and Corey Evans kept picking at it, pulling long threads from the sides where it rested above his ears. The gauze covered the bandage hiding his eyes and encircled his head, forcing his short, dirty-blond hair into spikes. He felt so damn invalid, and he promised himself he wouldn’t cry, not again, not now. When he cried, the bandage got wet and his eyes stung, and f**k if he was going to ask the band’s manager Dean Summers to come in and change the wrappings for him again.
Dean said he didn’t mind, but Corey didn’t want to deal with him right now. The wisecracks, the jokes, as if this was funny somehow. And he wasn’t about to ask Dean’s wife Kate, either—she was worse, with her sympathy and concern. She cooed over him like a m
