You are in the forests of North America, 200 million years ago.

The air in the early Jurassic valley was thick, humid, and smelled of wet rust—a mix of red mud and fern spores. Twenty feet away from where you were crouched behind a thick cycad trunk, in a sunlit clearing, stood an Anchisaurus.

It wasn't a giant. At roughly seven feet long from snout to tail, it was roughly the size of a large deer, but its proportions were entirely prehistoric. It was a delicate, slender creature, leaning on all fours but appearing ready to rise. Its skin was a mottled brownish-red, blending perfectly with the arid, sediment-heavy surroundings.

You watched it feed. It moved with a slow, deliberate grace, ripping mouthfuls of ferns with small, spoon-shaped teeth. As the wind shifted, it paused, standing up on its robust hind legs, towering over the low vegetation to survey the territory, eventually looking directly towards you, its large eyes blinking slowly and its thumb claws—long, sharp, and slightly curved—gripping a drooping tree branch.