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Jen, you write young people better than anyone I know and most people I've read and I'd mojo you into oblivion if I had any mojo I could give.
The cement was absolute gray, looking soft and almost spongy, rippling in their own time. A bricklayer’s comb marks were deep and irregular, the seams between cement sheets apparent and showing painful weakness. Old damage had been repaired with more goopy cement, platelets trying to congeal in wounds. Jude did not want to touch it, for fear of a wet or yielding skin, though he knew he had put a hand on this wall before.
And then their is your unique and beautiful attention to detail. I love what you notice.
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