Dana lived in a ranch house at the end of a quiet street in Gibbon.

Her concrete driveway was already packed with vehicles.

We squeezed past an old blue Buick with one hundred ninety thousand miles on it.

Walt had parked his faded green truck right by the front walk.

The heavy tires were thickly caked with dried Kearney mud from the county roads.

Loud laughter drifted out from the open screen window of the brick house.

It was Walt, holding court in the front room.