<div class="floatleft">(http://i.huffpost.com/gen/64570/thumbs/s-LIEV-SCHRIEBER-large.jpg)<br/></div><br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/><span class="bbc_u">ENTER</span><br/><strong>name</strong>: Hank Summers<br/><strong>time</strong>: Dinner Time<br/><strong>Tags</strong>: Alexandria, Buffy, (Alyssa?)<br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/>Mr. Summers had still only just been back from work for a few minutes. At least, it felt that way. A phone call and some paper work in his office had distracted him. His scarf was still around his neck. His glasses were tight in his grasp, his knuckles pressed against his temple, the papers strung out below his eyes started to blend. He shook himself free as his beloved Alexandria called him into the dining room for dinner.<br/><br/>Still clothed, he started through the hallway, starting to realize how warm it was inside. Hank had lived in California his whole life, and December weather had always called for a scarf. "Buffy!" He called politely through the house, unsure if his daughter was even home. Sliding his scarf off, and setting on the coat rack beside his steaming dinner table, Hank disrobed down to his shirt. He even loosened his tie. "Is Buffy home?" Alexandria was in his vision now, he was stood up by his chair, ready to sit down, but waiting as if he was trying to remember the condition of the locks on his car.