The door to Frodo’s bedroom opened a second time.  “Mr. Frodo, what’s all this noise?”  Sam’s eyes adjusted to the light in the chamber.

“It’s the noise,” came Frodo’s muffled voice, “of a healthy hobbit making up for about the past three days’ meals, all at once.”

“Frodo!” Sam cried, overjoyed, and ran to the bed.  “What happened?”

Frodo swallowed the last bit of mushroom pasty and wiped his mouth.  “Well, it’s about four-thirty in the morning, Merry and Pippin have gone stark mad, and I have found a way to get around my writer’s block!  Andyou,” he said, poking Sam in the chest, “get to help me.”

“Help you?  How?”

“It will be difficult for you, Sam, and I’m terribly sorry; but it’s the only way I can think of getting this done.  I need you to—not right now, mind you, but when I’m done eating—to go back in your mind to the darkest days, perhaps from the Crossroads till the end, and tell me everything—everything—that you remember.  I need to see what happened through your eyes.”

Sam thought, and slowly nodded.  “I can do that.”

“Thank you so much, Samwise, you have no idea how much this means to me.”

Red crept into Sam’s face.  “I’d do anything to help you, Mast—”

“I know, and I don’t deserve it.  Now, if you could run along and get—oh, a quire of paper to start with, while I’m eating, we can begin on this right away.  With any luck, we’ll be done before the day is through!”