His first words to me in person, as he was jumping out of the same old silver BMW, were, “Shoot, I am so sorry, baby. My people didn’t know who you were.”

“I know,” I said against his cheek, already enfolded in his long arms.

That was the month that CJ was in Vanity Fair’s music issue. In the photo essay of that year’s most influential figures, he was labeled “The Prodigy” and was photographed standing on a gritty hotel rooftop, the sun behind him sinking into layers of L.A. atmosphere, the camera angle low enough to make him look seven feet tall. He’s turned away from the camera, an abstracted visionary.

At just twenty-two, he had become one of L.A.’s most sought-after producers. No one doubted the depth of his understanding of hip-hop or his respect for it. Some people who saw him in deep concentration, listening to something only he could hear over headphones, said they’d looked at his eyes and thought at first that he was blind.

He had also taken back his name, in the liner notes of the two CDs he’d produced and on the Grammy he’d won. The name Cletus Mooney now commanded respect throughout the music industry.

Practically the first thing I asked him, that day in L.A., was which name he wanted me to use.

He said, “Whatever you want to call me is fine.” He checked the traffic before pulling out onto the street. As he did so, he said, “What’s wrong with your arm?” He’d noticed the cast on my wrist.

“Broken bone,” I said. “I fell. It’s no big deal.”

“You’re not out here on some kind of medical leave, are you?”

“No,” I said. “I… CJ, I’m not going back.”

I could see his confusion, and in a moment he articulated it. “You mean, you graduated early?”

He knew that wasn’t it, but denial is like that. Often there’s a short detour on the way to the unhappy truth.