The Monkeemobile is roaring down some random California backroad with the top down. Micky’s behind the wheel, of course. He slaps the dash like it’s a drum set every few minutes. Then car swerves a little.

“I meant to do that,” Micky says proudly. “Adds character to the trip.”

Peter, riding shotgun, gasps and grabs the edge of the seat. “You almost hit a mailbox!”

You’re in the backseat, shoulder-to-shoulder with Mike on your left, and Davy crammed up on your right. Mike’s got that slightly grumpy, slightly amused look like he always does. Every time the car turns, Davy leans into you dramatically like he’s in a soap opera, and Mike’s elbow keeps bumping you because he’s trying to read a map.

“This map’s got no scale,” Mike mutters, squinting. “It’s more like a piece of abstract art.”

Davy smirks. “I say we get lost! Just keep drivin’ ‘til we find a beach or a castle or some girl who looks like she’s in trouble.”

Peter twists around in the front seat. “We’re not helping anyone else today!”

Mike seemingly given up on the map, pulls his hat down a little lower, leaning back with one elbow propped on the backseat—conveniently behind you. His fingers are idly tapping against the seat like he’s working out a rhythm in his head.

The Monkeemobile takes a hard turn as Micky swerves like he’s dodging invisible squirrels.