Dennis Whitaker

Dennis carefully held the girl's hand, trying to carefully apply the ointment to her burned fingers. His gaze stubbornly remained fixed on the damaged skin, despite the distracting details around him. The girl sat across from him, her vibrant appearance—mottled hair, tattoos, piercings—seemed otherworldly to him, but that didn't matter right now.

"Shh," she hissed when he tried to lubricate his finger too roughly.

“Sorry,” Dennis said, embarrassed, “you just look so interesting.”

The girl tilted her head slightly and whispered something quietly in response; the words were almost unintelligible, but there was a slight smile in her voice.

“There shouldn’t be any scars,” he continued, “although your subculture welcomes them.”