“Rogers,” Nate repeated slowly, looking down at her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Like, Shaggy Rogers?” He glanced to the flashlight that he still brandished. Realizing he must look somewhere between a complete idiot and total jerk, he cleared his throat and swung the long flashlight so the bulge of the bulb rested on his shoulder. Though he tried to make the action look suave, he hit his shoulder a bit too hard not far from where the door had done its damage, making him wince slightly.
	He strode toward her, his boots clicking lightly on the linoleum.
	“Nathanial Jones,” he answered her question, offering her a hand to both shake and help her up. “Most people just call me Nate. You shouldn’t be here, you know.”