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"Let's hit the bars."
"Yeah. Let's look around."
The last of the recording had played, and the stereo had turned off by itself; outside, in the darkness, the snow was banked midwinter high.
"Will they be uptight?"
"I don't see why - we'll be together."
"Yeah. It's just to see what's going on."
When my wife and I returned from the store, their car was gone: it had been buried beneath the snow, and the driveway filled bumper-high. The driveway was clean now, shoveled to a pretense of April.
"He has not welcomed her to his family," I noted.
"Nor has she him to hers," my wife replied, "the baby shivers in the snow."