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Chapter, uh, three, I think it was... Three's a crowd, or company, or something like that. Look, here's the deal, Gandalf, my friend, you're saying I should sneak off quietly, and, you know, do it soon. But, uh, it's been a couple of weeks, maybe three, I can't quite recall, and I'm still here, not packed or anything.

"I know, I know," I keep telling myself, but it's not easy, you know, doing it quiet and quick. If I just up and disappear like old Bilbo, well, everyone's gonna be talking, and you know how fast news travels around these parts.

Gandalf, he's like, "No, no, Joe—I mean Frodo, you can't just vanish into thin air. That's not the plan. I said soon, not this very second." He tells me if I can figure out a way to leave without causing a big scene, it's okay to wait a bit. But not too long, he says. Can't drag my feet on this.

So I'm thinking, maybe in the fall, around our birthday, you know? I might have something figured out by then. Truth be told, I'm dragging my heels here. Bag End's looking pretty good, and I want to enjoy one last summer in the Shire. But when the leaves start to turn, I'll feel different—always do.

I've got it in my head to leave on my fiftieth, which is Bilbo's one hundred and twenty-eighth. Seems like a good day to follow his footsteps. That's what's keeping me going, thinking about following Bilbo. The Ring and all that, where it's gonna take me, I try not to dwell on it. And Gandalf, well, he's a smart cookie, but I don't tell him everything. Hard to say what he knows or guesses, right?

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