You’ve been sleeping on the sofa. It’s past two in the morning, and the Monkees have just piled back into the pad after a gig. You usually go with them, but tonight you didn’t.

You don’t even flinch when the front door slams shut. Of course, it was Micky.

Mike tosses his jacket onto the couch, and freezes when he realizes the couch is occupied.

“…Hey,” he says quietly, holding a hand out. “Watch it.”

Too late. Micky’s already stomping across the room, half-singing something off-key, kicking off his shoes. He stops short, squints down at you. “Ohhh.”

Davy leans over the back of the sofa, hovering way too close. “She’s fast asleep,” he whispers—at full speaking volume.

Peter winces. “Davy,” he says gently, “that’s not a whisper.”

Micky immediately starts tiptoeing. Loudly. Every step exaggerated.