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❝just a pain-in-the-ass, johnny cash, middle finger❞
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BOYS WERE HUGE, SHUCKING IDIOTS ALL OF THE TIME. Iris honestly wondered how every single guy in the Glade had not killed themselves yet. She was bandaging Minho, the Keeper of the Runners, up because he had a huge gash on his arm.
"How did you tripping end with this big of a cut?" she questioned, shocked at the length of the bloody slit on his arm. He claimed that he fell, but it really seemed like he got into a fight with a really angry chicken. Though that sounded crazy, it had happened there before.
He sighed, and it was obviously something embarrassing from the look on his face. She was waiting for him to say that he tripped on a vine and landed on a giant Griever tooth. "I fell onto my knife."
"That'll do it," she chuckled out. As she tucked in the end of the bandage and made sure that it was firm in its place, she patted him on the shoulder, causing him to wince. "Well, I think you're set. Maybe put that knife somewhere else."
He rolled his eyes with a smile, hopping off the table in the middle of the room and heading toward the door. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Iris."
"Anytime," she answered, waving at him as he left. Minho was one of the people she liked more in the Glade. Most of the Keepers were like him — nice and friendly and grateful, but then, there were some people that really did not appreciate her services and were rude to her ever chance that they got.
