After searching for hours, Michael was on his way home to call the police to report a missing person, which meant he wasn't too far away when a bright red flare lit up in the early-morning sky over their house. In spite of the fact that he felt so exhausted that he could barely put one foot in front of the other, he pushed himself into a slow jog. Micky wouldn't have fired off the flare if Peter wasn't home.

On one hand, Mike was angry. He spent almost the whole night worrying, walking around the city at night, and trying to flag down passing cars to ask about his missing bandmate, when Peter appeared to have come home on his own. On the other hand, he couldn't help the sense of relief that flooded over him as he reached the front door. Automatically, he picked up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm before opening the door.

His eyes fell on Peter almost immediately, and all anger left him. The mere thought of yelling at the boy completely evaporated as he threw his arms around him. "Glad you're okay, buddy," he muttered, before stepping back and smiling. "Me and Davy were out lookin' for you all night. Where the heck did you end up?"

Before Peter got a chance to answer, though, Davy stepped through the bay window door, looking every bit as tired as Mike felt. "Saw the flare," Davy said, searching until he found Peter. "Ah, there you are, mate. Don't ever do that again, deal? I'm gonna sleep for a year— And Mike, if you tell me we have to practice today…" He let the statement taper off, pointing a warning finger at the black-haired young man.

"No, we can take the day off," Mike replied.

After brushing sand off his feet, Davy stepped inside, rubbing his eyes. "At least tell us where you were, huh?"

"Oh…" Peter said, nervously fiddling with his fingers. "Well, I went for a walk, and I was gonna come home, but then I walked past a phone and I thought that … that I could make one call and everything would be okay. But then I had to go to the train station because— "

Micky spoke up from the kitchen. "Peter called my sister," he said.

At the kitchen table, Micky sat next to a girl who had an uncannily similar appearance. Her hair was longer and pulled back, but it still had a wild quality to it, as if no brush could ever quite tame it. Though her face was decidedly feminine, it had a striking resemblance to Micky's, right down to the same green-hazel eyes, which smiled at Mike from behind a pair of glasses. She was holding Micky's hand in both of hers.

"Josephine Dolenz," Davy said. "Honestly, I never thought I'd see you again. How've you been?" He hurried from the bandstand to the kitchen, and Jody stood up to meet him in a hug.

"Still no, David," Micky said dryly, smirking. Davy released her, and she sat back down, taking Micky's hands again.

"I was just sayin' hello," Davy returned, giving Micky a gentle shove.

But Mike couldn't stop staring. He couldn't find words for the longest time, until his brain finally decided that the very best thing for him to say was, "I didn't even know you had a sister, Micky!"

For some reason that Mike couldn't figure out, both siblings looked quite uncomfortable immediately after the statement. Just as he was about to ask what was wrong, though, Davy took him by the shoulder and turned him around. "C'mon, you guys. Let's go outside for a bit. Let these two catch up."

"But I'm tired, Davy!" Mike complained. He struggled for a little while, trying to get around the shorter man, even once looking longingly toward the spiral staircase which would lead up to his bedroom. To salvation. To blessed unconsciousness. But Davy was adamant, eventually managing to push him up the bandstand steps and all the way to the bay window. For a moment, he thought he just might be able to turn enough and escape, but as soon as he tried, Peter was there, smiling, gesturing out into the cool morning air.

Sighing, finally giving up, he stomped onto the deck, newspaper still tucked under his arm. Behind him, he heard Davy say, "You guys got half an hour. Beyond that, no guarantees."

Mike, no less exhausted than he was five minutes prior, grudgingly accepted the fact that he wouldn't be sleeping just yet. With a yawn, he carefully descended the steps, with Peter and Davy close behind. Remembering the paper that he had under his arm, he lazily reached for it, unfolding it to the front page as he reached the ground.

"Anything interesting, Mike?" Davy asked.

"Nah, same old stuff." Most of the major headlines tended to be about the war, or politicians, or sometimes even sports. Micky's injury got a brief mention in one such article.

As he paged through the paper, he leaned against an old, half-dead maple and eased himself to the grass. Peter sat down next to him, while Davy stood with his arms crossed, looking up at the bay window.

"You're the one who wanted us to leave, Davy," Mike reminded him, with a half-smirk. He flipped to the next page.

"I know. I just hope things are goin' all right up there. You know, Mick and Jody haven't spoken in years."

"Years?"

"Some sort of fight," Davy said. "Never got all the details. He wanted her to keep up with her music, and she wanted him to get an education."

"Micky said she was a hippie," Peter supplied. He, too, had his attention on the bay window, as if staring at it would reveal the conversation behind the glass. "He said she was hard to reach, 'cuz she traveled a lot."

Davy laughed. "Jody? A hippie? Well, she's not exactly conservative, but I'd never see her gettin' wrapped up in free love, peace, waterbeds, brown rice…"

Mike interrupted, with a wave of his hand. "So what happened last night, Pete? Where'd you go?"

Peter proceeded to tell the story of the scribbled-out phone number written in crayon, and how he kind of figured the number had some significance. After Davy told him about the whole fight between Micky and his sister, Peter decided to call the number, and reached Jody herself. "We talked for a while," Peter said. "She was really nice. Quiet. She said her parents told her about Micky's accident when it happened, but she didn't feel right coming to see him. And… And I told her that there might never be a better time. But she said she couldn't. I didn't have much time to talk, 'cuz that was the day of the first round, you know?"

Mike nodded.

"So after you yelled at the whole audience on stage, I called her again. I went to a pay phone. Had just enough change with me to call her. I told her… I said Micky wouldn't play anymore. And she said she'd be in on the next train. And then I figured someone oughtta be there to pick her up, so I went to the train station."

"Yeah, well, how'd you get there?" Mike asked. "The station ain't exactly in our back yard."

Peter looked uncomfortable, squirming, wringing his hands, and looking away. "Well, I was at a gas station. So I just asked some nice man if he'd give me a ride."

Mike rubbed his face with both hands, momentarily ignoring the newspaper. He didn't need to tell Peter that hitchhiking was dangerous, but even so, he felt like he had to say something. "You coulda been killed, Peter."

"I know," the boy said miserably.

"Still, it was a nice thing you did," Davy affirmed. "Don't know what's gonna come out of it, but she might be able to talk some sense into him."

Resuming his perusal of the paper, Mike asked, "How'd you get back home?"

"We took a cab. Jody wouldn't let me ask any strangers for a ride— Don't look at me like that!" Peter pouted when Mike rolled his eyes and shook his head. "It worked fine the first time. I coulda got us back here."

"Smart girl, Jody," Davy chuckled.

Mike's eyes glanced over the headline in the Entertainment section as he smirked and read aloud, "'Competition Heats Up in Santa Monica.' Looks like two of the bands were disqualified for 'underhanded tactics,'" Mike continued, reading on. "Trying to bribe the judges 'r somethin', I bet. Doesn't say exactly. They elevated the next to highest-scoring groups to the top ten."

"They coulda just left 'em out," Davy said. "Would have increased our chances."

"Who made it?" Peter asked, obviously glad the attention was off him and his transportation tactics.

"There's a list here," Mike replied, setting the paper down on the grass. Davy and Peter shifted their position so they could more easily read.

Aside from the Monkees, there were nine other groups, including, of course, the Gargoyles. The Gargoyles probably held the most favor among the fans, for good reason - with talent like theirs, they deserved their own record deal. Of course, also contending was Flower Child, whose female lead seemed to endear herself to the young women in the audience, and the Terriers, who had a sort of Mamas and Papas lean to their music. Mike could recall that the B Shortcuts and Never Meant To played mostly metal, while Indigough - another mixed-gender group - tended toward the rather novel idea of country rock. Cedric and the Rabid Rabbits weren't the best band ever, but they certainly knew how to work an audience, and made it through to the finals on their charisma alone. The two bands that replaced the ones that were disqualified were the Tuxedo Kitties and Confused Ravioli, both of which Mike never heard of before the competition.

After taking a moment to read, Davy said, "Guys, I really think we can do this."

Michael really wanted to believe that, but with Micky's participation still up in the air, they only had three members. Still optimistic, Davy said, "We can have Peter sing one of the pieces he's been workin' on. "Can You Dig It" maybe."

With a set list of four for the final night, the boys again found themselves presented with the rule that at least two members of the band had to perform on lead. Davy still couldn't sing and play the drums at the same time without making some serious errors either with his voice or with the percussion. While he could perform "I Wanna Be Free" without drums, it wasn't as much of a crowd-pleaser as some of their other pieces, which meant Mike and Peter would have to take over lead singing duties.

Michael rubbed his chin, sighing. If they wanted to win, their best shot was to get Micky singing again. Micky and Davy. Ideally, Micky would sing, then Davy, then Micky again, and then Michael could close with one of his songs. Honestly, Mike liked his voice, but he didn't think the crowd would want to hear him sing three of their four allotted songs.

Peter lay back on the grass, folding his hands behind his head. "You know, sometimes I think I'm cursed. I've got perfect pitch, but I can barely carry a tune - and that's on a good day."

"You did 'Grizelda' all right," Mike returned.

"That was 'Grizelda,' though. You get me up on a stage with a new song, and I'll be all over the place, Michael. I… I know what I'm good at. I'm not a singer. That's not why I'm here."

Michael flipped the page over to the editorials. "We got no choice, buddy. Not unless we can get Micky on stage again." He paused, eyes skimming over the letters to the editor.

One stood out.

It would have to be today.

"And once we read this to Micky," Mike added, "our chances of that happening are pretty slim."

—-

"You remember how to play?" Micky asked. He managed to make his way to the closet. Finding the guitar was an entirely different problematic endeavor.

He could feel Jody lurking nearby, though he never could find the right words to explain how his senses managed such a trick. Turning, he looked under his arm, although looked wasn't exactly the right word, inasmuch as he was just facing her with unseeing eyes.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

"Nah, just give me a sec." Smiling, he went back to searching for the guitar. Of course, Micky realized, he would only find it in the closet if it was in the closet.

"You're pretty good at this, huh?" Jody asked.

It had to be somewhere, though. Somewhere close… No one could hide a guitar so easily. If he moved a couple more things— There! "Well, it's not impossible," Micky said, carefully extricating the neck of the acoustic instrument from coats and scarves and whatever else had it all tangled up. "You have three guys as roommates, though, and sometimes it's a little difficult makin' sure they put things back where they're supposed to be, so I can find 'em." Triumphantly, he held up the guitar, beaming.

Jody didn't respond. Micky ventured, "Jody?"

Nothing.

"…Jo-Jo?"

"Micky, why didn't you call me?"

He frowned, shoulders slumping. Setting the body of the guitar on the floor, he held onto the neck with both hands. He wished he could see his sister's face, because she sounded either sad, or just on the verge of anger. Little nuances like that were still beyond him, but Micky figured they'd come with time. Because he had no way of telling, he had to ask, "Are you mad?"

"Mad? No. I just… We always made up before…"

He allowed a smirk, picking up the guitar again and carrying it to the bandstand, where the other acoustic guitar rested.

"How do you do that?" Jody asked. "Get around like that?"

"I Dunno. Everything just kinda opened up in my mind. I feel things different. The place where I was standing is ten steps away from where I wanna be. And if I lose count on the way, there's a couple bumps in the floor I can use, like a map. Anyway, Jo-Jo, we never had a fight like that before."

She was silent. Micky said, "If you wanna respond, you gotta speak up. I can't see you shrugging."

"I was nodding," she replied.

"I mean, sure, we argued over who got to keep the snake we found by Mister Keller's pond, and who got to sing at our cousin's wedding. And, you know, a dozen other little things that one of us could just apologize for later…" Micky trailed off as he found the second guitar. Plucking the strings one at a time, he started to tune the one he just found in the closet.

"Why not just use that one?" Jody asked. "The one on the stand over there…?"

Micky laughed. "That's Blondie. Only one who touches Blondie is Michael. Besides, if we used that one, we'd already be singing, and we wouldn't be having this chat." As he worked on tightening the lower E-string, he realized that the A was missing. "Jo, there's a box on the ledge over there, could you…?"

He heard her soft footsteps travel away, then back toward him. Close. Closer. She sat down next to him on the step, taking the second guitar off his lap. After a brief silence, Micky heard the discordant twing of one of the guitar keys being turned, probably to loosen what remained of the old string. "I think," she said, "The problem was that we kind of insulted each others' choices before going our separate ways."

He barely picked up the mere whisper of the old string hitting the floor before he heard Jody tear open the paper package containing the new string. Micky felt the residual nagging memory from the old argument cropping up again. They managed to say some pretty hateful things to each other on that day. Things Micky regretted almost immediately. "Too bad this isn't some sort of movie or something, eh?" he said. "We could go back in time and work out exactly where things went south. Like a flashback or somethin'."

"You could have called," she said, her tone mildly accusing.

"Yeah, well, you could have called me, too."

Neither of them spoke. For a while, the only sound was the plink of the twisting tuners, and, every once in a while, the errant pluck of an un-tuned string. Eventually, Jody said, "Okay, play an A for me."

Micky did. When Jody echoed it, the resulting sound was the wrong note, and fairly sharp besides. Some time later, she said, "Again."

This time, the echo was a lot closer.

"You had a gift, Jody," Micky finally said. He paused, then added, "…but it wasn't where you wanted to be, was it?"

"No," she said. "Just like you woulda been miserable sitting in a classroom all day. One more time."

This time, the notes matched.

Micky played the next string, and Jody went about matching it on the other guitar. "So the question is," she said, "Why did we go so long without talking? How come it took someone who wasn't even there to try and set things right?

"Peter," Micky said, chuckling. "He doesn't like people fighting."

"He said you tried calling me — in some sorta roundabout way. I figure, even if you had my number, you were just hoping to accidentally stumble onto somewhere I was. 'Oops! Wrong number! But while we're on the line, how about if we make up!' Didn't make much sense, Micky. The weird thing is, when he told me, I kinda understood perfectly." She stopped talking long enough for Micky to play 'D' again. And again. And again. She couldn't quite get them to match up.

"It's hard to say 'I'm sorry,'" Micky said.

"Why now, though?" Jody asked. She finally got the strings to match, so they moved onto tuning 'G.'

"These guys are like my family," Micky said. "I mean, they know everything about me. Kinda. Well, they know what I remember to tell 'em, anyway. I mean, I talk a lot, so sometimes I think maybe I've said something, when I really haven't? Or then maybe I repeat myself a little bit and end up sayin' the same thing over and over? — Uh. Thing is, I know they're gonna eventually pull me out of this somehow. That's what they do. But they don't know everything I've been through. You were always there to tell me it was gonna be okay — for all the major things, I mean. Grandpa's funeral, Mom and Dad losin' the house…"

"You don't need me to tell you that," Jody said.

"Yeah, but when you said it, I believed it," Micky replied. "Or maybe it was just an excuse for me to try an' contact you again." He smiled, looking up in the direction from which he last heard her voice. She sounded the same, so he could picture her in bright, vivid color, giving him a tolerant smirk as she tried to pretend that he wasn't the best big brother she could have ever asked for.

"Well, in that case, everything's gonna be okay."

As fate would have it, that was exactly when thundering footsteps ascended the rear stairway, and several people came tromping into the pad through the bay window door. "I told 'im to give you guys half an hour!" Davy yelled.

Micky jumped when he heard the sound of something heavy - like a stack of papers, or books, or something similar - slam onto the floor in front of him. He could sense someone standing near him, and looked up just as Mike said, "We got problems."