Broken Boulder the sweet far thing

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.