Elijah Bishop opened the door. A smile crossed his face when he saw me. “Hey, it’s you. What’s up?” He wore our area’s high school hoodie and athletic shorts. On the floor was his backpack as if he walked in and tossed it aside.
“Mind if we come in for a few minutes?” I asked.
The teenager stepped aside, and we entered. Like most apartments, the walls were painted white. Yet everywhere I looked, I saw Tennessee Volunteers. All the family photos had an orange or silver frame. An orange blanket draped over the back of the couch. The square rug took up the floor space in the living room. Near the kitchen was a Volunteer clock. They had placed orange candles on small surfaces. Whoever decorated the place did a great job working with the white rather than fighting against it.
“Have a seat,”
