Broken Boulder the sweet far thing

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.