The Pad was quiet.

Too quiet.

Davy sat slumped at the kitchen table, staring blankly into space with his chin resting in his hand. Every few seconds he’d sigh dramatically.

From the couch, Micky lowered the comic book he’d been reading.

“You’ve been sittin’ there moping for an hour,” he said. “You sick or somethin’?”

“Worse,” Davy groaned.

Peter looked up from the jigsaw puzzle spread across the floor.

“Worse than sick?”

Davy let his forehead fall onto the table with a dull thunk.

“Tomorrow.”

The room fell silent.

Mike glanced up from the guitar

“…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!”

Then all three Monkees winced 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 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!”

The next evening arrived far sooner than Davy would’ve liked.

He’d spent the entire day pacing the Pad, coming up with increasingly ridiculous escape plans that had all been immediately rejected by the others. By sunset, he’d accepted his fate and collapsed onto the couch in miserable silence.

Then—

Knock. Knock. You had arrived first.

Every head in the room turned toward the front door.

Davy slowly sat up. “…No.”

He looked at the others as if begging one of them to answer instead.

Nobody moved.

Swallowing hard, Davy shuffled toward the door and carefully pulled it open.