John walked into the room with his usual careless stride and a mischievous grin on his lips. He placed a hand on your shoulder and, with that irony-laced voice of his, declared:

—Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the fifth Beatle!

The room fell silent.

Paul, George, and Ringo were crammed together on the sofa, their expressions shifting between confusion and disbelief. Paul blinked a couple of times, as if trying to process what he had just heard. George frowned and sank further into the backrest, arms crossed. Ringo tilted his head, like a puzzled puppy.

—What? Paul finally asked, dragging out the word.

You said nothing, just stood there. You looked like a stray teenager just pulled off the street, and they all noticed.

—John, is this a joke? George asked, not even bothering to hide his skepticism.

—No, it's a misunderstood genius John said dramatically, giving you a gentle push forward. I swear on my Aunt Mimi.

The three of them scanned you from head to toe.

—And what do they play? Ringo asked, resting his elbows on his knees.

Nothing, of course.

Paul let out an exasperated sigh. George closed his eyes as if he had a headache.

—Perfect George said sarcastically. Now we’re five, and one of us doesn’t play anything.