Bearclaw Valley snake oil

Kepler was an atrophied name— kept hunched and crouched in the backrooms of his skull. The first time he had heard it was when he was born. The second time, when his brother ground burning wood to his side and he had fought back (the scar was still there, a hairless jagged circle, puckered). The third time, in Evien's mouth.
A long silence passes. His fists are clenched. For a moment, it would be easy to mistake the expression on his face and think that he was going to cry, but instead, he presses his face to the doctor's shoulder, eyes closed.
Into his summer-brown skin, he mouths something incomprehensible, something in-between Evien and idiot and thank you.
His breaths drag and shudder, brows drawn together tight in a sobbing without tears. A lot of the times, you didn't need to say I love you. Perhaps Taylor knew that better than anyone else.