“I think she’s out cold,” a familiar Southern drawl muttered nervously. Sunlight blurred your vision, but the voices around you were unmistakable. “Maybe she fainted from seeing me,” another voice piped up, cheeky and British. “Can’t say I blame her.”

“Davy,” the Texan voice shot back, “can ya focus? She’s lyin’ on the street, not at one of your fan meetin’s.”

“She needs help,” Peter said, wringing his hands. “We should get a doctor—or the police. What if this is illegal? What if we get arrested?!”

“She’s just a kid. Come on, we’ll take her back to the pad. She can rest there,” Mike said, squatting beside you.

“What?!” Peter yelped, his voice jumping an octave. “We can’t just take her! That’s ki-dnapping!”

“It’s not if we’re helpin’ her,” Mike argued. “We’re bein’ good Samaritans.”

Peter shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Good Samaritans don’t just pick people up and carry them off!” But it was too late. Mike had already leaned down to scoop you up.

Peter trailed behind as Mike carried you toward their iconic beach pad, muttering nervously, “This is a bad idea, guys. What if the police come after us? Or what if she wakes up and freaks out?”

Inside their cozy beach house pad, they gently set you down on the couch. Davy quickly grabbed a pillow, tucking it under your head. “There you go, love. You’re safe now.”

“Safe?” Peter squeaked, pacing the room. “She’s gonna think we just took her!”

“Pete, calm down,” Mike said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “We couldn’t leave her out there in the dirt, could we?”

You sat up slowly, taking in the surreal sight of them all standing around you, larger than life. “Wait… Where am I?”

Micky grinned. “You’re in the Monkees’ pad. Lucky you, huh?”

You blinked at them, your headache momentarily forgotten. This wasn’t just surreal—it was impossible. You were in the 1960s. In the Monkees’ pad.