[Orual]

Anson turned restlessly in his bed, thinking on the meeting. It had gone rather well, he supposed, all things considering. They had gotten a nice company together; nine in all, three representatives from the Hobbits, Men, and Elves. They had a goal now, and he had stayed up for a while, speaking with his companions-to-be about a plan. The next day, at about ten, they would set out for Rivendell. This would mean waking up early for breakfast and packing, which would be a bit of a nasty shock for himself, Peony, and Ferdibrand, but it was unavoidable. They had to reach Rivendell, and soon. It was no short journey: twenty-two days at a brisk pace, by his reckoning. It would not be pleasant, yet they had to stop for supplies. They could not go on with their own travelling stores, or from stores gathered from the Inn. The innkeeper could not afford to spare much, even for those who were trying to save Eriador; he had to keep himself and his family fed, as well as his customers, as long as he could.

Frustrated with his insomnia, he got out of bed and went to look out the window. It looked out to the road, dark and empty, except for a gaunt-looking squirrel and an equally malnourished fox hot in pursuit. That's us, Anson thought miserably. We're that squirrel, fleeing from the fox, only we can't see our fox. It's an invisible predator. Will we outrun it, or will it consume us? He rubbed his eyes tiredly, and before he opened his eyes he had a flash of his precious Violet, lying in bed with Della weeping over her, a rash of blisters running down her throat. Anson cried out, and the other hobbits in his room stirred, but did not wake. He caught his breath and swallowed hard so as not to vomit. They had to leave. He went to plan the trip in greater detail. Come the morning, they would have to leave.