Coughing and sniffling, Frodo rolled over onto his other side, nearly displacing his bedsheets again from tugging. He could hear other young hobbits at play and longed to join them, but the very nose made his head hurt more. Flipping his pillow to the cold side, he drew one end over his ears in hopes to stifle the sound. Hustle-bustle is never pleasant for the ailing’s senses.

                One thought kept pervading his mind, making the thirteen-year-old feel sad and childish.

                If only Mum and Da were here to give me a mug of steaming chamomile tea and read to me.