The search spun. A single result appeared:

“Not all who wander are lost. But you, Arthur, are certainly misplaced.”

The television, a stubborn beast that had been state-of-the-art in 2018, offered no suggestions. No autofill. Just a blinking cursor, mocking him.

The Harfoot gasped. The grumpy Elf actually cracked a smile. And Arthur felt a gentle, gravitational tug—like a DVR rewind—that pulled him backwards through the static.

The Elf sighed, a sound like wind through a dead forest. “You and half of Middle-earth. We don’t have ‘streaming.’ We have stronding . It’s like wading through a narrative river. It’s slower. Wetter. More existential dread.” He stamped Arthur’s chest—it didn’t hurt, but left a glowing blue rune on his cardigan. “Follow the Hobbit with the tablet.”

A stressed-looking Harfoot—not a Halfling, she insisted, they were Harfoots —was frantically tapping a cracked slate. “It’s not here!” she wailed. “I’ve searched In the Shire . I’ve searched In the Mines of Moria . I’ve even searched In the Bathroom of the Prancing Pony (don’t ask). Where is Season 2?”