ATLANTA — The elevator beeped, and the doors opened. We had arrived on the 17th floor.
Fluorescent white lights hung from the ceiling of the office space. The sun, peeking in on this scorching summer day, brightened the gray walls. Past the expansive lobby and down a skinny hallway was a room with a cracked door. When the man inside heard the knock, he blurted, “Come on in!”
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Fran Tarkenton’s glasses pressed up against the tip of his nose. He slouched in a chair, holding an iPad. Spotting me, he placed the tablet on his wooden desk, pulled the black frames off his face, set them down, then motioned toward the
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