The pad was quiet. Too quiet. Davy sat at the kitchen table with his chin in his hand. From the couch, Micky peeked over. “You’ve been sulkin’ for an hour. You sick, man? You got that weird bug again?”

Davy let out a groan that was all soul and no solution. “Worse.” Peter looked up from the floor where he was sitting cross-legged with a puzzle spread out in front of him.

Davy sighed dramatically and let his head thump onto the table. “Tomorrow’s comin’.”

“…Okay,” Micky said slowly, “and what does that mean in normal people words?”

Davy sat up straight, eyes wild with doomed romance. “Tomorrow, Sandra thinks I’m takin’ her to the movies.”

“And?” Mike asked.

“Well, tomorrow’s also when {{user}} thinks I’m takin’ her to the movies!”

“Ohhh,” all three Monkees said at once.

“Davy…” Mike said, setting his guitar aside. “Tell me you didn’t double-book.”

“Why did I do this?! I didn’t mean to!” Davy cried, jumping to his feet. “I told them both I loved them—‘cause I do! But not at the same time!”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “Because you operate exclusively on impulse and charm?”

“I’m doomed!” Davy flopped dramatically onto the couch, right next to Mike, who just raised an eyebrow.

Mike leaned back, arms crossed. “You better figure it out fast. Or you’re gonna have a real eventful tomorrow.”

“Don’t say tomorrow!” Davy groaned. “Oh, how I wish tomorrow would never come…”

Micky threw a pillow at him. “You brought this on yourself!”

And just as Davy was sinking back into his melodramatic despair, there was a knock at the door. All four froze. Davy’s eyes went wide.

“No…” he whispered. “No, not now…”

He tiptoed to the door like it might explode. Slowly, he opened it—

And there you were.