I helped whenever he asked.
Most of the time, I simply watched.
Now and then, Noah’s expression shifted in small ways.
He was not quite smiling.
He was remembering how.
He pushed a broken shell into the entrance and stepped backward.
“Dad would say the front needs guards.”
“Crab guards.”
“Terrifying.”
He nearly laughed.
Nearly.
The tiny American flag remained inside his pocket until the castle was complete.
When he finished, Noah rinsed his hands in the ocean and returned slowly, as though one sudden movement might harm what he had built.
He took out the flag.
Its cloth had faded through several summers. One corner was beginning to fray. Simon once said that made it look as though it had survived a battle.
Noah held it in both hands.
“I’m putting it on the highest tower,” he chirped, standing tall like a little sentry. “It’s for Dad.”