J.T.

Much to Rock's surprise, James Taylor appeared at his house near daybreak. There was no way Rock could've anticipated this. He and James had been close friends through college and for the first few years after they graduated, but over the last twenty to twenty-five years, they had seen each other sporadically, by coincidence if at all since the early-1990s. When Rock last saw him, at least ten years earlier, James sat in a restaurant in Little Rock's River Market with his then two-year-old son.
Not long after, a mutual friend told Rock that James had moved to Fayetteville. He was apparently doing very well at his work as a videographer for the University, but here he was, out of the blue, in Rock's living room. He looked just the same, Rock thought.
"It was time for me to come home," James said. "Before I left, I knew my music had turned stale, and I was in dark places. I had to shake it all away. The pain finally faded while I was in Fayetteville, and I felt I was ready to start over."
"Well, heck," Rock said. "It's great to have you back."
"You're one of the main reasons I returned," James said. "I'll tell you, Rock, I've watched you over the years, and the simplicity of your life has inspired me."
It seemed perfectly normal to Rock to have this aging pop start in his house.