You are in the forested plains of North America, 69 million years ago.

The morning mist was still clinging to the ferns of the Late Cretaceous valley when you heard the rhythmic tapping—like dozens of small, wooden sticks hitting the earth.

You froze. It wasn't the slow, heavy movement of a larger herbivore. It was fast—a quick, scurrying sound.

Emerging from the fog wasn't one, but a dozen Parksosaurus. They were small, agile ornithopods, barely reaching your chest, moving with a bird-like jerkiness that made them seem constantly alert. Their skin was a tapestry of mottled greens and browns, perfectly camouflaging them against the forest floor.

The herd was foraging. They used their nimble, five-fingered hands to strip leaves from low-hanging branches, their small, specialized teeth grinding away with rapid, precision bites.

You moved slightly, snapping a dry twig.

Instantly, the entire herd stopped chewing. Twelve pairs of large, intelligent eyes turned toward you, their heads tilting in unison. They didn’t panic. Instead, they held a tense, silent pose, evaluating you…