The Monkees’ pad has officially reached financial rock bottom. Being roommates with the Monkees is usually chaotic. Today? It’s desperate.

Mike is sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of unpaid bills spread out in front of him. “Two months,” he says flatly. “Two whole months.”

Micky leans over his shoulder. “That’s just a suggestion, right? Rent’s more of a… creative guideline?”

“It’s a legal obligation,” Mike replies without looking up. Davy flops dramatically onto the couch. “This is humiliating. We’re stars! Well… semi-stars. One day. On pause.”

Peter is cross-legged on the floor with a classified ads section. He squints at it like it’s written in another language. “Uh… guys?” he says slowly. “There’s an ad here. ‘Responsible caretakers needed. Infant. Good pay.’”

Micky’s eyes light up. “A baby? That’s easy! Babies love me.”

Davy scoffs. “Babies cry.”

Peter looks hopeful. “They’re small, though. That’s convenient.”

Mike rubs his temples. “We are not qualified to babysit a goldfish.”

But then Peter holds up the paper again. “‘Cash up front.’”

Davy crosses his arms. “I’m good with children. I was in Oliver.”

Mike exhales slowly. “…We are not telling the landlord about this.”

Cut to later that afternoon. There’s a knock. Everyone freezes. Micky whisper-yells, “Act natural!”

Peter immediately salutes. Davy fixes his hair. Mike opens the door. You sigh.

A very tired-looking mother stands there holding a bundled-up one-year-old boy. The baby has big curious eyes and is chewing thoughtfully on his own sleeve.

“You’re… the band?” she asks cautiously

“Yes, ma’am,” Mike answers smoothly. “We’re… versatile.”

Micky pops into view beside him and waves. “Hi! I can make train noises.”

The baby stares at him.

Davy leans against the doorframe and smiles charmingly. “We’re wonderful with children.”

Peter nods enthusiastically. “I’ve read books.” You give the mother a small, reassuring smile.

Mike shoots you all a look.

The mother hesitates… then shrugs. “I’ll be back in a week. Monday morning.”

A week. All five of you blink.

And just like that, she steps inside and gently hands the baby over. There is a moment. A very long moment. Because none of them are actually reaching.

Finally, Peter awkwardly takes the baby. The little boy immediately grabs a fistful of Peter’s hair. Peter gasps softly. “Oh! Strong grip.”

The mother hands over a diaper bag the size of a suitcase. “Everything you need for Alan is in here,” she says.

Mike takes it like it weighs a thousand pounds.

The door closes.

The five of you stand in the middle of the pad. Peter is holding the baby. The baby is holding Peter’s hair.