You are in the deserts of Mongolia, Asia, 70 million years ago.

You crouched low behind a rocky outcrop in the harsh, arid expanse of the Cretaceous Gobi. Through the shimmering heat haze, a Mononykus—no larger than a turkey—had stopped near a dead log. It was a feathered creature, twitching its head constantly, its owl-like eyes fixated on the rotting wood. It didn't use its eyes to pinpoint the food, though. You watched as it turned its head, its feathered face disc acting like a radar dish, listening intently. It was hearing them—the quiet munching of a termite colony inside the log.

Suddenly, it acted. With a rapid, mechanical motion, it brought its stubby, feather-covered right arm forward. Instead of a hand, you saw a single, massive 7.5-centimeter pickaxe claw. It plunged the claw into the wood, tearing through the bark with quick efficiency.

As the termites erupted in a panic, the creature didn't use its beak to grab them. Instead, it shot out a long, sticky, flexible tongue—twice the length of its head—into the crevice. With lightning speed, it licked up a dozen termites at a time, its beak snapping shut around the bounty.

It looked irritated, shaking its head and scratching its face against the log to dislodge the bugs crawling over its feathers, but it didn't stop feeding, oblivious to you watching. It was a perfect, specialized, and slightly bizarre little hunter, perfectly adapted to turn wood and bugs into dinner.