Closer to the center of the fort, the concrete matched the dead grass on the surrounding embankment, just darker than parchment. Scribbles of mortar clung to it like toddlers' graffiti in a nursery. They reminded Noah of when he first moved into town, when his dad was excited and motivated and let Noah help mud the cracking walls of the family's ‘new' home—the house had been settling into the soft coastal earth for nearly as long as Fort Stark had. These days, Noah mudded the cracks alone, but he still did it with his fingers, like his dad had used to. Every time made him remember doing it as a child, solemnly, studying his father's sense of privilege.
From "Fort Stark, New Hampshire" in Subtle Fiction. Reposted to read online at Fictionaut.