Logan awoke to the sound of gentle but steady beeping. Blinking, he opened his eyes and gazed up at a tiled drop ceiling. A long fluorescent light seemed to be directly over him and he groaned at the onslaught of brightness.
“You’re a f*****g i***t,” Dylan said.
Logan turned his head toward the sound of his friend’s voice. As his vision cleared, he say Dylan sitting in a chair in the corner of this room. Dylan was holding a magazine. He tossed it onto a coffee table as he stood and came nearer Logan’s bedside.
“You’re often an i***t, but this really takes the cake,” Dylan said, his voice low with disapproval and, even if he was trying to hide it, worry. They’d been friends long enough for Logan to know that tone. He didn’t hear it all that often, only when he really f****d up bad.
Dyla
