It's nothing other than the crunch of small bones that perks his ears up. Our young detective stirs and grabs his weasel from the floor. Before going on, he turns it upside down and gives it a good shake, because old habits die like cockroaches, which is to say, they don't. 
His mind's backtracking, back to Merrick, Merrick. He tries, but he can't remember his face. He supposes that he should keep his memories organized but he's already drowning in paperwork as it is.

The first thing he observes (and records) as the white stranger turns around is his face: narrow, a straight nose, dark eyes that looked more like an artistic suggestion than organs of an animal.
Something stirs in the back of his head. It approaches the front. It's that familiar teenage urge to take something beautiful and ruin it. Taylor tamps it down with a steel-toed foot. He tries not to stare, but he can't help it. Stop already, idiot.
He notices that the boy is staring at the weasel. Nah, I don't. he replies, as amicable as anyone can be with a corpse next to his foot. It doesn't take a genius to find out that the stranger's a loner. He can see it in his eyes— refugee's eyes. Hungry eyes. A sudden vision of him playing the xylophone on his ribs. He blinks, shakes his head.
Take it, he says, pushing the weasel forwards. I live south of here, with some friends. Ursus, he thinks. At least that's still fresh in his memory. It's difficult to forget even for someone like him.
Taylor could not give a less of a shit about who was going to eat the weasel in the end.

Those russet eyes were flickering on and off, to and away, like lightbulbs in an air raid. Any other day, he would've found this amusing, maybe even charming. But he was too tired to feel much of anything. Everything felt so far away. Now he'd give anything for sleep.
What a skittish guy. Taylor could yell something now, really yell something, and he could have a heart attack. He imagines a gravestone. The epitaph of it reads: Here lies ___. Died of fright. He supposes that there are worse ways to die.
With nothing to do, he sits down, crosses and uncrosses his legs, tries to get that nervous energy back into his hands. He watches him tongue the food to one cheek and speak out of the other. Taylor thinks he's too tired to smile, but he manages one anyway, fighting gravity.
A characteristically long pause later, Taylor answers. Sort of. We have a claim, but it isn't official, I think, he raises an eyebrow and congratulates himself inwardly at not messing the process up. What's your story?

Glancing down at the weasel, and to the curve of Ico's small, fox-ish mouth, Taylor is only half-listening, because that's all he knows how to do. He does notice, however, that at the mention of a story, Ico has unfurled and awakened. 
If Taylor knew how a big brother usually was, then he'd say that he was feeling like one right about now. That wasn't the case. Obviously.
He thinks that stories are just another breed of small talk. Small talk that's been allowed to roam free and mutate for a couple generations. Walnut Grove, ...good for them I suppose, conclusion, conclusion, conclusion. This reminds him of the one time his mom ever told a bedtime story to them. She would change her voice, turn into every character, and Taylor would ask, How?
How? How how how how—
He blinks, hard. The appropriate face he should be making is a pensive one with maybe a dash of pity. So he frowns thoughtfully like it's his job. You're not half bad, if you've survived for that long. Then, with an apologetic laugh, a sorry, I think I'm going insane laugh, I'm Taylor. But everyone calls me Fields. 
The thing about stories was, that you could just make them up. Wanna know mine? I can do voices for all the characters. His mind is full of silt, like seafloor that's just been mussed.

In a rare moment of non-resentment, Taylor almost feels bad for Ico. Almost can't bear to look at him anymore. He feels pulled apart by horses. He shakes his head to erase the thoughts, but he knows they will regroup, a swarm of vengeful insects.
I was born in the fall. In a forest. I forgot the name. My mom, she would always tell me, you didn't cry at all. Not even when you hit your head or lost your milk teeth.
Mom sounds weaselly, squeaky, irritating. It's a good impression. She deserves less.
My dad, he was the tall one of the family. I mean, I look just like him. He'd always say, I'm busy, I'm busy. Just a second.
Dad sounds reedy, thin, anxious. He doesn't exist.
My brother, he would tell me— let's try this, Taylor. —I mean, he was, an interesting guy.
Brother sounds, well, he sounds like Taylor.
He's very smart. Scary smart.
Oh, what the hell. This is getting too close to the truth. What was it about Ico, and his stupid flighty eyes, and his stupid permanent slouch, his prettiness—
I left because I wanted to see the world, he lies. I'd just learned to hunt, and to fight, and I ended up here. And I met someone... Merrick. A boy with one eye. Taylor fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. More and more, the acting is getting easier. He wonders if he is really being himself, right now. More and more, it's getting hard to tell. And then I met you.
Another long pause. 
His voice is softer, thoughtful. You're looking for somewhere to stay put, right?

A snicker escapes him, only because he's incompetent and unable to keep check of all the fine muscles in his throat. Characters. Taylor wants to grab Ico by his thin shoulders and shake him and laugh for being so goddamn intellectual. That was it! Everyone was a character. Not one of his finest eureka moments.
In a blink, he turns calm and intense, and he fixes Ico with a questioning look. Not a stare— he's careful of all that. What was it? Blinking every few seconds? Looking away for a bit, then looking back again? It was so much work. How did other people do this so easily? You can come with me back there, if you want. This is the second offering he's made, but it carries more weight than the half-eaten weasel. Even Taylor knows that.
You don't have to stay either, he says with a toothsome grin, Just long enough to meet some characters. Maybe put them in your stories for the future. 
Characters. He's really struck gold with Ico. If they were humans, he'd be giving him a big pat on the back, ruffling his hair. 

Mr Fields. That was funny too. As far as he knew, they were the same age, many a few months apart. Did he really seem that old? Was it the height?
It was the height.
Good-naturedly, Taylor waves away the prospect of repayment. Checks and balances— all that stuff was a nuisance if you really got down to it. Though he supposed if you really got down to it, there were no rules at all anywhere. Well then, onwards, he says, enjoying the feel of being in a story, despite himself. The intrepid explorer and his faithful partner! He'd be adjusting his hat if he had one, and putting a stalk of wheat in his mouth.
On the fairly long trip south, he would share stories of the Valley with Ico, talk about the mysterious one-eyed boy king, talk about bears in the shadows.