You are in the forests of North America, 70 million years ago.

The forest was still dripping after a monsoon rainstorm. Your Jeep—a battered yellow Wrangler—was idling near the edge of a ravine, the engine a low hum against the eerie silence of the valley.

Just then, the silence broke. It wasn’t a roar—not yet. It was a low, resonant thrumming vibration that rattled the loose change in the center console.

A massive figure soon surged from the treeline, and suddenly launched itself at the driver's side. You felt your teeth rattle, as you catch a glimpse of a head of a creature—loaded with serrated teeth—its massive, serrated snout pushing through the open passenger-side window. It was barely two feet away.

Gorgosaurus, you realized. Sleek, fast, and terrifyingly agile compared to the stories of its larger cousin T. rex. It was roughly 30 feet of muscle and dark, bluish-green scales.

One golden eye, with a pupil thinner than a slit of obsidian, focused on you. It didn’t look vicious; it looked curious—which was infinitely more terrifying. The creature exhaled, a huff of hot, foul air that smelled of rotten meat and wet ferns, fogging the windshield and instantly warping your vision. You froze, paralyzed by a mixture of sheer awe and absolute panic.

The great skull tilted, the muscles in its neck rippling under the skin as it angled its gaze, testing the scent of the strange, metal-and-leather nest you had made for yourself. For a second that felt like an hour, it stared directly into your soul, assessing whether you are food or just a strange, noisy bug…