“Pontus Beg had not become the old man he’d imagined. Something was missing—a great deal, in fact. As a boy, he had for a time been in the habit of walking around his father’s yard with a pair of safety glasses on the bridge of his nose, his hands clasped behind his back—that was how he imagined the life of an old man to be.”
“The kids were happy, the adults were drunk. At 9pm, the Roman candles and sparklers lay on a card table outside the garage, right next to the cupcakes and deviled eggs. Junior Miller, underemployed contractor, stood near the table, gazing absently at his seven-year-old son dunking the skinny Harrington twins in the above-ground pool.”