“He missed his imagined future.”

“He imagined his past gone, along with his future. Death was the understanding of the immediate present: that there is finally nothing else.”

“Time would not change what I was feeling--or not feeling. I'd had time, and though the ache from his desertion hadn't disappeared, it was decreasing. My future was blurry, yes, but I was beginning to imagine a future when I would no longer miss him at all.”

“If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.”

“I missed the future.”

“Still Dev missed him. Not all the time or even very often, but now and then, missing would hit Dev, throw him off balance, a sudden, undeniable ache to know his father, how his voice sounded, what his face did when he read the paper or looked at his son. And the missing wasn't fair; it wasn't earned. In fact, the missing, the searching, the imagining were so unfair that when you put them all together, they looked a lot like betrayal.”