Micky yawned and rolled over, pulling the covers further over his head. He could hear a spirited game of beach volleyball being played outside, and it had awakened him from a deep slumber. He'd been having a very good dream, too. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to recapture the images. He and the guys had been frolicking around in a fantasy land, complete with beautiful fairies, unicorns, and mermaids. He'd never dreamt of stuff like that before - it was all Mike's doing, what with all his talk about mermaids.

MIKE!

He snapped awake all at once and sat up, throwing his blankets to the floor. "Mike . . .?" The other bed was empty.

Micky puzzled over that for a minute. Mike had moved back up here last night, hadn't he? That couldn't have been a dream . . . no, he remembered that clearly. Mike had been up and around for the first time yesterday, and had insisted on moving back to his own bed. He didn't like Davy's bed, he complained. It was too short, and the room was too close to the ground. Micky smiled a bit. Mike was definitely getting better if he was well enough to complain.

He stood and threw on some clothes before sliding down the banister and landing with a thump on the floor. Mike was sitting curled up on the couch with his 12-string, strumming a quiet melody. "Hi Mick," he said in greeting.

"Hiya Mike. Whatcha doin' up?"

"Couldn't sleep. I been down here since early this mornin'."

"Oh." Micky joined Mike on the couch and silently noted the slight tremor that refused to leave his hands. Mike seemed to be dealing with it alright, though. The tremor wasn't audible in his playing. "So . . . how d'you feel?"

"Okay, I guess." He strummed a few chords, then reached down and scribbled a few lines on the pad of paper he'd placed on the coffee table.

"What's that," Micky asked, pointing.

"New song."

"Play it for me?"

Mike shrugged a bit. "It's pretty rough."

"I don't care," Micky smiled.

Mike made a face at him before starting.

It was a medium-paced, easy-going ballad, almost mournful. Micky found himself mesmerized by Mike's fingers as the guitar sang along with him.

Mike made a face as he finished singing. "I don't like it."

"No? I thought it was great."

"It needs more. Drums, a beat . . ."

"I kinda like it as-is."

"No." Mike shook his head, frowning. "It's not a ballad, man, it's . . . I dunno. It's not done."

"Okay . . . I heard some of it before."

"What do you mean?" Mike asked, sounding suspicious.

"When you were sick. You kept saying one of the lyrics over and over again. 'Here I stand, happy man.' We all wondered what it meant."

"I dunno what it means." Mike paused, still strumming chords on his beloved guitar. "What else did I say?"

"Not much else . . . a bit about mermaids . . . I had a real weird dream last night because of that. Oh, and laughing porpoises."

"Hmph."

"Hey Mike?"

"Yeah."

"What . . . I mean . . . you never really talked about it . . . what you meant."

"Meant by what?"

"The stuff you said. You kept begging me not to jump. And you told Peter he wasn't a dummy. Oh, and you said something to Davy about beating up factory workers."

Mike flushed a bit. "Oh. Well, it was a weird trip, man."

"Uh-huh . . .?"

Mike stopped playing, staring into nothingness, his face serious. "It was . . ." He sighed and slowly resumed playing, beginning to frown. "I'll tell you about it Mick, but I want to tell all of you. I can't do it more than once."

"Okay, I can dig that. You want me to get Peter and Davy?"

"No. I'll just . . . later, when everyone's here. No need to call them in . . ."

"Sure."

"Say Mick, why don't you help me with this song? I'm gonna work on the melody, you can help me with the beat."

"Okay!" Micky jumped to his feet and eagerly took his place behind the drums. Mike dragged a stool up to the front of the bandstand and took a seat - he still wasn't strong enough to stand for long periods of time. Micky grinned. It was close enough to old times to give him a warm feeling inside.

Mike counted them off.

Davy opened the door and was surprised to see Micky and Mike jamming on the bandstand to a song he didn't recognize. It was a high-energy, fast-paced rocker, with Mike on lead. A grin quickly formed on his face and he bounded over to join them. "'Ey cool, mates," he enthused as they finished with a flourish. "That was great!"

"Thanks," Mike said with a lazy grin. "What do you think, Micky, it sounds a lot better now, huh?"

Micky shrugged good-naturedly. "I still say I like it as a ballad, but yeah it's great now too."

"What was it?" Davy asked, picking up Mike's lyrics sheet.

"Just something I came up with," Mike answered.

"Circle Sky . . ." Davy read. "What does it mean?"

"I have no idea."

"Oh. Okay. 'Ey, there's that thing you kept saying - "

"Happy man, I know," Mike grimaced.

Micky snickered into his hand.

"Hey, where's Peter," Mike asked, shooting Micky a dirty look.

"Shopping. We're out o' food again."

"But we haven't worked in a while," Mike fretted, "Do we have the money?"

"Don't worry Mike," Davy assured him, "We've got it."

"Got what," Peter asked, as he struggled inside, trying to juggle four bags of groceries.

Davy quickly ran to his side and relieved some of his burden. "Money," he explained. "For food."

"Oh, we've got that."

"I told him that."

"Hey Mike," Micky said suddenly, "Do you wanna talk, now that everyone's here?"

Mike gave Micky a dirty look as Peter looked to him with interest. "Talk? About what?"

"Mike was gonna tell us all about his freaky trip."

"Oh, really?" Davy put the groceries down on the kitchen table and peered at Mike, his gaze penetrating. "I didn't think you were gonna say anything about it."

"I wasn't planning to," Mike muttered, shooting another evil glare in Micky's direction.

"You were too! You said when we were all together - "

"I was just trying to shut you up!"

"Oh."

"You don't have to talk about it," Peter soothed, trying to avoid an argument. "We were just . . . wondering, that's all."

Mike scowled, fingers tightening on his guitar. "No, he's right. I said I was gonna talk about it, and I will. On my own time, in my own way."

"Sure Mike," Micky apologized, "I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry."

"'Ey, why doncha play that song you guys were working on for Petah," Davy suggested, hurriedly changing the subject. "I'd like to hear it from the beginning anyway."

"Sure," Mike nodded, his face lighting up. "Pete, I think I'm gonna end up turning some of what I'm playing now into a bass line. Listen for it, the three-note progression in the verses."

Davy pouted as Peter nodded enthusiastically. "Nothing for me?"

Mike thought about that for a moment. "I think it could use a bit of organ," he mused. "What do you think, Mick?"

"Maybe . . . it's your song."

"Tell you what, Davy, I think it's gonna want some organ, but I haven't written it yet."

"Okay. Groovy."

"Ready Mick?"

"Yup."

"Okay. One, two, one-two-three . . ."

"Tag, you're it!"

Davy let out a yelp as Micky barreled into him at full-speed, knocking him to the ground. Peter was doubled over with laughter, his hands clenching his knees in an effort to keep him upright.

"I give up, I give up," Davy shrieked, trying to push Micky off him. Micky, however, refused to budge, and Davy could feel sand creeping into his underpants. "Micky, get off! Okay then, you're it!" And with that, he slammed both fists into Micky's chest, sending him flying backwards. Peter was laughing so hard he was having trouble breathing.

"Oh, that's charming," Davy mock-complained. "I've got sand in me knickers. I'm goin' inside to change."

"Hey, see if Mike'll come out and play," Micky yelled, as he turned his attack on the helpless Peter.

"Okay," Davy giggled, hurrying away from the "game" as quickly as he could. He spared one last glance behind him as he scuttled inside, and saw Micky sitting triumphantly on a squirming Peter's back.

"'Ey Mike?" He waddled into the Pad, rudely picking at his itchy knickers. "'Ey Mike, you wanna come play . . .?"

The question trailed off as he spied Mike sitting by the window, staring blankly out at the beach. It appeared as though he could see Peter and Micky clearly from his perch, but his face was passive, almost grim.

Davy gulped a bit and stepped closer. "Mike . . .? You okay?"

"Yeah," he nodded absently, without taking his eyes from the window. "Listen Davy, can you get the guys? I think I wanna . . . that is, I need to talk to you. To all of you."

"Oh . . . sure. Can I take me knickers off first?"

Mike finally turned, and raised an eyebrow. "You gonna be a nudist now?"

Davy flushed. "No! Micky got sand in me drawers!"

Mike smirked at him. "Micky did."

"Yeah! 'E wouldn't let me up!"

"Uh-huh."

"It's true! 'E 'ad me down on the ground an'e wouldn't let me up, an'e got sand in me knickers!"

"I don't wanna know what Micky was doing with your . . . knickers."

"You're just playing with me now."

"If you say so."

Davy stuck his tongue out at Mike and hurried into the bedroom. He grinned a bit as he changed. He'd been a little worried at Mike's blank stare and rigid posture . . . and the fact that he wanted to talk was suspicious in itself. "'E's not one to talk, that one," he muttered, pulling on a fresh, sand-free pair of shorts. But the joking around was a good sign.

"Okay Mike, I'm going," he called as he jogged back outside.

"Be careful," Mike deadpanned without turning. "Micky's doing his werewolf impression again."

"Hold it, Micky, hold it!" Davy held his hands up in surrender as Micky spied him coming out of the beach house and prepared for another ambush. "Mike wants to talk to us!"

Micky stopped short, sliding in the sand and landing just inches in front of Davy, eyes wide with shock. "What?"

Peter joined them, suddenly concerned. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, 'e's alright, I think. 'E was teasin' me about me knickers . . . but he wants to talk to all of us."

"About the mermaids," Micky breathed, casting a nervous glance toward the pad.

"Guess so. You comin' in?"

"Let's go," Peter said simply, following word with deed. Davy stepped after him, leaving Micky standing alone on the beach.

"Hey Mick?" Peter turned and beckoned to him. "C'mon, Mike's waiting."

Micky gulped and ran a hand through his curls. "Yeah . . . I'm coming." He trudged up to them, his face grim and his eyes filled with dread. "I dunno if I'm ready for this," he admitted. "I don't really wanna know what was going on with the porpoises . . ."

"It'll be okay Mick," Davy assured him. "'E's in a pretty good mood, it won't be too intense."

"I hope not," Micky sighed. "I don't think I could handle it if it was."

"Cool it," Peter warned as he opened the door to the pad. "He'll hear you."

Mike was still sitting by the window, his body illuminated by the sunlight streaming in from the window. His guitar lay propped up by his feet, sheets of unfinished music and half-written lyrics strewn on the floor. Micky took a few hesitant steps forward and spoke nervously, eyeing one of the lyric sheets. It was labeled "Porpoise Song."

"Uh . . . hi, Mike . . . you wanted to . . . talk?"

Mike turned and stood, heading into the kitchen. "You sound nervous, Mick, you okay?"

"Who, me? I'm fine."

"I heard you were having some fun with Davy's underpants."

"Hunh?!"

Peter snorted a laugh into his palm as Davy made a face at Mike.

"Sit down guys," Mike chuckled, taking a seat at the table and motioning for them to do the same.

"What do I want with Davy's underwears?" Micky puzzled as he took the seat across from Mike.

Mike shook his head with a barely-there smile. "Sorry to drag you guys away from yer game," he began as they settled down.

"It's no problem Mike," Peter assured him. "We were about done, I think."

"Speak for yourself," Micky muttered, still puzzling over Mike's offhand underwear comment.

"Well okay," Mike said, folding his hands together.

"Okay," Davy prompted, nodding his encouragement.

"Right . . . umm . . . I guess this is gonna be harder than I thought," Mike admitted, staring down at his hands.

"Take your time," Peter said in a soothing tone. "It's okay."

"Yeah I know . . . umm . . . well, okay, see, there was this box. A black one."

"Black box," Micky repeated slowly.

"Yeah, a box. We were trapped in box, and all this weird stuff kept happening. Not all of it happened in the box, but it all led back to the box. Not back like . . . in a box back, but . . . oh, forget that. It was all about the box."

"Well . . . what were we doing there?" Micky asked hesitantly.

"In the . . . black thing, you mean?"

"That's right."

"What we were doing in there?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Well first, uh . . . there was . . . first we were in a factory. And then there was a commercial thing . . . nonono, it was a vacuum cleaner. Yeah, a vacuum cleaner."

"Uh-huh . . . okay . . . so, uhh . . . what was the bit about 'don't never laugh at no cripples'?"

Mike looked a bit startled at that, and his cheeks flushed red. "I said that?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, we laughed at a cripple."

" . . . Oh."

Mike sighed frustratedly. "I know it doesn't make any sense, but it does! I been thinkin' about it a lot, see. I think the whole thing was tryin' to tell me somethin'. About you guys, about us . . . about myself."

" . . . And what did it tell you?" Peter asked gently.

"It told me that - " Mike smiled sadly. "That I'm the Dummy."

"I don't get it," Micky put in hesitantly.

"No, you couldn't, see, 'cause you weren't there. But I'm gonna explain it the best I can."

He took a deep breath. "I can't tell you the whole thing, 'cause it'd only bore you to death and probably confuse you even more. So instead I'm gonna tell you what it meant to me - and why I'm . . . why I've made this decision.

"What decision?" Davy asked, suddenly uneasy.

"I'll tell you, I promise. Just let me get through this."

"Okay . . ."

"It started with . . ." He looked sadly at Micky. "With your death."

"Oh . . . you killed me off," Micky joked half-heartedly.

Mike managed a tiny smile. "Not really. See, you didn't really die . . . I don't think. You jumped off a bridge . . . we were chasing you."

"We?" Davy asked.

"You and Peter and me," Mike clarified. "Only later, see, it turned out we weren't chasing him at all, we were all being chased. And we all jumped, but we just ended up back in that box."

"I . . . see."

"No you don't, Mick, but that's okay. After that, we were filming a scene, I guess we were in a movie or something. Micky and me. We were cowboys, I think, and I had an arrow in my shoulder but it wasn't real. You walked off the set and we went an' got Davy, who was suddenly a boxer."

"I was a boxer?"

"Yeah, see, but that's not the important part."

"Oh."

"I was . . . I dunno who I was supposed to be, but I was mean. I didn't care at all that you were getting the snot beat out of you, all I cared about was the money. I really deserved it when Micky decked me - "

"He decked you? When?"

"In the ring, after he KO'd Davy. But that's not important either."

" . . . Oh."

"What is important is that Peter showed up and he said 'I'm the Dummy,' and that was perfectly alright. But Peter, you're not the Dummy, and I shouldn't treat you like one. I'm sorry for that."

"Wait . . . you're saying this weird trip of yours told you that you think Peter's a dummy even thought you don't?"

"No, it told me that I oughta be more careful about how I treat people. How I treat you guys especially . . . Mick . . . I never told you how much I admire you."

"You . . . admire . . . me?"

"Yes."

"But . . . why?!"

"Because of your sense of humor. You're always ready with a smile or a joke. You're always surrounded by friends because people can't help but like you. When I met you, I resisted you because you intimidated me. I didn't understand how you could be so easy, so carefree. I guess I still don't. I wish I could be as happy as you, but I don't think it's possible. I can never be like you, Mick, I'm just too . . . I dunno. I just can't. I guess I'm scared. 'Cause see, as high as you get, as happy as you get, that's how sad you can get too. I reckon I'm just not strong enough to take the lows with the highs."

Micky stared at him, speechless. "Well . . . I . . ."

"You got all that from a box?!" Davy finished incredulously.

"No, I got that that 'cause he was the first to jump."

"Oh . . ."

"And Davy, I guess I underestimated you. I never gave you enough credit, I just pegged you as a girl-crazy, lovesick fool and I never bothered to look for what was underneath. But what's underneath is a really tough, really smart guy who's not afraid to fight for what he wants. Y'know Davy, I envy you too. Not just for bein' a chick magnet - though I sometimes wish I could have just half a chance with just one of your discards - but for stayin' human despite everything. You'd never let a friend down, not for a girl, not for nothin'. You fought your way out of that factory, and you stood up to that guy with the gun, and you still stayed the same. Now, I know that wasn't real . . . there was no factory, no gun . . . but I know you'd do it if you had to. I think in a lotta ways, you're a braver man than I am."

"Wow . . . Mike, thanks . . . that means a lot to hear you say that - "

"And Peter," Mike continued, giving no indication that he'd heard, "Oh God, Peter . . . I done you wrong, buddy. I've talked down to you and I've scoffed at you and I've insulted you time and time again . . . and you still stick by me. Hell, if I treated me half as bad as I treat you, I'da decked myself a long time ago! But you just take it Pete, you just smile and you keep on lovin' me anyway."

"You don't treat me badly, Mike, you're one of my best friends - "

"You're doin' it again Pete! I don't understand why you put up with me - "

"Because you're my friend . . . you're my brother!"

"Why?" Mike asked simply. "Why am I your friend? Why do you call me your brother?"

"Be . . . because you are! We all do things sometimes . . . we all say things that might get on somebody else's nerves, but that's okay . . . let's face it Mike, I can be dense at times - "

"No - "

"I can! I get distracted easily, and my mind wanders and I say stupid things. I don't mind it that you sometimes forget there's more to me than that. If anything, it's my fault. I just let you keep on thinking that I'm an idiot when I should be concentrating harder and proving I can do it. You can't be faulted for seeing what's there."

"Yeah Mike, and I know I'm a girl-crazy lovesick fool. 'Ow many times 'ave I held up practice 'cause I couldn't keep me eyes off some bird?"

"Yeah, and me bein' so . . . up . . . all the time causes trouble too . . . I get a little wild, you know," Micky admitted sheepishly. "We need to you remind us what we're here for!"

"Yeah Mike, you're the only one that keeps us a band! Without you," Davy shrugged, "we'd just be a bunch of crazy guys with an amp."

"We wouldn't even have the amp," Micky pointed out, "Mike brought that with him!"

"So you see Mike?" Peter finished, grinning from ear to ear. "You're not the Dummy either!"

Mike looked away, tears brimming in his eyes. "No, I'm not. Not anymore . . . I'm . . . I'm leaving the band and moving back to Texas."

"Wh . . . what?!" Three pairs of eyes widened, and Micky jumped up from the table, knocking his chair over in the process. "But . . . butbutbut you can't do that!"

"I'm sorry guys," Mike murmured softly, unable to meet their eyes. "It's for the best - "

"Didn't you hear a word we just said?!" Peter grabbed at Mike's hand, fingers pressing painfully into his palm. "We need you Mike, you can't go!"

"You can keep the amp - "

"It's not about the amp!"

"Look guys, I've really thought about this - "

"Well, you didn't think hard enough," Davy burst out, slamming a fist into the tabletop. Mike jumped, startled, and made the fatal mistake of looking into Davy's flashing eyes. "Who do you think you are, anyway? You don't give us any credit, do you! You don't even trust us enough to pick our own friends! Well guess what Mike, you may be an arrogant, stupid, son-of-a-Texas-hick, but we love you anyway, and you're stuck with us whether you want to be or not! And . . . and if you move back to Texas, we're bloody well coming with you!"

It was Mike's turn to be speechless. "But . . . but I - "

"Michael, please . . ." Peter lifted tear-filled eyes to his, and took both of Mike's hands in his own. "It wouldn't be the same without you . . . I know things aren't perfect, but we don't expect them to be! Please don't leave us because of this . . ."

"Yeah man," Micky added, his tone still suffused with panic. "If you go, who's gonna clean up after me? I'll go nuts, Mike, Peter can't control me! And Davy's short!"

"You keep that up and I'll punch you in the face," Davy threatened, standing on tiptoes and shaking a fist at Micky.

"You punch me in the face and I'll kick you in the head!"

"Davy, Micky, come on! Cut it out, please," Peter pleaded, but they paid him no mind.

"You kick me in the head and I'll rip out your lungs!"

"You do and I'll be sorry!"

Mike just stared, all of the blood draining from his face.

"Guys, please, don't fight!" Peter grabbed hold of Davy's shoulder, only to be thrown backward as Davy wrenched himself out of his grasp. "Davy - "

"Cool it," Mike said, his voice barely audible. No one heard him, so he cleared his throat and said it again, louder this time. "Cool it!"

Both Micky and Davy stopped short, turning to him with expectant looks on their faces. Mike stood slowly, trying to still his shaking hands. "Look . . . I know you guys don't understand where I'm coming from, but . . . I just don't know how I can stay here."

"Why not?" Peter asked quietly. "We've already told you - "

"I know what you've told me . . . I heard everything you said, I really did. I just . . . I don't know . . ."

"Is your head telling you to stay?"

"No . . . that's the confusing part. My head's telling me to leave, it's my heart that's wanting me to stay."

"Then listen to it! Just this once, Michael, follow your heart. Please!"

Mike looked at the three of them. Brave Davy, fuzzy Micky, innocent Peter . . . they were the best friends he had . . . his family. Could he really leave them? What would happen if he did? They wouldn't really fall apart without him, would they? They could get another guitarist easily, one whose tastes were a little less . . . country. Maybe someone even better than he was. Someone who could control Micky's acting-out, guide Peter's meandering thoughts, and quell Davy's volatile moods. But who knew them better than he? Who knew him better than they?

He took a deep breath, unsure of what was going to come out of his mouth until it came. "Alright. I'll stay."

---

Epilogue

Davy stepped out of his bedroom, a wide yawn escaping him. He stretched a bit and was in the middle of scratching his bum when he turned around and saw Mike sitting alone at the kitchen table.

"Mike!" he squeaked, almost jumping out of his skin. "'Ow long have you been there?!"

"You look lovely this morning Davy," was his only answer.

Davy flushed and tried in vain to smooth down his flyaway hair. "Yeah, well . . ."

Mike smiled a bit, then sighed and rested his chin on his hand, a look of intense concentration crossing his face.

"'Ey . . ." Davy began hesitantly, "You okay?"

"Hmm . . . ? Oh, sure. Just thinkin'."

"What about?" Davy ventured into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, looking for some breakfast.

"Well . . . there's just one thing about that whole . . . trip . . . that I can't understand."

"One thing?"

"Well . . . yeah."

"Okay, what is it? Maybe I can help you figure it out."

"I don't see how you could, but okay . . . see, there was this guy . . . a really, really big guy, who I think was runnin' things."

"Running things?"

"Yeah, well, you see, he was chasin' us all around and tryin' to stomp on us and stuff, and in the end when we got trapped back in that box, it was him that put us there."

"I thought you said we jumped off a bridge."

"We did . . . but we just ended up in his box."

"Oh wait . . . it was his box?"

"Yeah . . . why?"

"Oh Mike, it all makes perfect sense now!"

"It . . . does?"

Davy placed the frying pan on the stove and turned to face him. "Well sure! See, that guy is Mr. Babbitt!"

"Mr. Babbitt?"

"Yeah! 'E's always tryin' to stomp us, and he owns our house, and that's why it was his box!"

"Oh . . ."

"It wasn't telling you you're a dummy, it was telling you there's no place like home!"

"No place like home . . . ?"

"And this," Davy made a sweeping gesture around the pad. "This is home!"

Mike thought about that for a moment, "You really think that's what it meant?"

"I know that's what it meant! It just proves that we're all supposed to be together!"

Mike was still for a moment, then he smiled a bit. "You know, maybe you're right. We'll just make up our story as we go along, and it'll all turn out alright in the end."

"That was pretty groovy, Mike, you oughta write that into a song."

"Already have."

I can tell by your face That you're looking to find a place To settle your mind and reveal who you are, And you shouldn't be shy, For I'm not gonna try To hurt you or heal you or steal your star.

Open your eyes, Get up off of your chair, There's so much to do in the sunlight, Give up your secrets, And let down your hair, And sit with me here by the firelight.

Why think all about Who's gonna win out? We'll make up our story as we go along,
There's so little time For us to try to rhyme, And so many highways to travel upon.

Open your eyes, Get up off of your chair, There's so much to do in the sunlight, Give up your secrets, And let down your hair, And sit with me here by the firelight.

The End

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