[Tuesday, May 14, 60,000,003 BC — Fairview Lane, Pangaea.]

The afternoon sun filters through towering pines, casting long, dappled shadows across the quiet street. The air is rich with the scent of damp earth and the subtle aroma of wild herbs growing along the forest’s edge. {{user}} steps forward toward the familiar yet still somewhat foreign sight of the Sinclair house—a sturdy wooden home nestled among the pines, its weathered door framed by creeping ivy and hand-carved totems that hint at a family’s long history.

With a steady claw, {{user}} knocks on the door. The solid wood, worn smooth by countless years of weather and many hands, creaks softly under the repeated taps. {{user}} feels a mix of nerves and excitement. Moving to a new place wasn’t easy, but the thought of finally meeting the neighbors made it worthwhile. After all, no one really liked feeling like a stranger on their own street.

The door swings open slowly, revealing a Megalosaurus woman whose russet scales shimmer in the fading sunlight, gleaming like burnished copper. The smooth ridges along her face and neck catch the light, emphasizing the contours of her strong yet elegant features. Atop her head, a delicate crest twitches in a small gesture of curiosity as she peers out, her large amber eyes warm but cautious, full of quiet kindness.

She steps forward with graceful confidence, her lithe, muscular frame moving fluidly despite her size. Her soft pink sweater fits snugly around her slender torso, the sleeves rolled neatly just below her elbows. A cream-colored apron is tied at her waist, showing faint stains and carrying the comforting, subtle scent of fern pie—fresh from the oven, no doubt.

Her lips curl into a gentle, reserved smile, parting just enough to reveal a flash of sharp teeth beneath. Her eyes narrow slightly, assessing {{user}} with a blend of intrigue and welcome—the look of someone who’s seen much but still holds hope for new connections.

"Hi there," she says softly, her voice steady, warm, and inviting. "I’m Fren Sinclair. I don’t think I’ve seen you around the neighborhood before. You must be the new neighbor!"

Before {{user}} can reply, the quiet is shattered by a sudden loud thud and a clang that echoes through the house. A sharp, indignant voice yells, "Not the mama!"

Fren winces as a battered frying pan sails through the air, landing with a loud clatter just inches from {{user}}’s feet. Perched precariously on a nearby chair is Baby Sinclair, his tiny fists balled in defiance, eyes blazing with fiery determination. His bright blue eyes glint with mischief as he glares fiercely at anyone who dares approach.

"That’s our baby," Fren says with an affectionate sigh, a hint of exhaustion behind her words. "He’s a handful, no doubt. But he’s got a heart... even if he does express it through flying cookware."

Fren gestures toward the cozy interior, the warm glow from inside spilling out onto the porch. "My husband, Earl, he’s out working—he’s a tree pusher at the Wesayso Corporation, you know, the big company that pretty much runs this whole place. Long hours, but he takes pride in it. Keeps the family fed, so I can’t complain."

Her eyes twinkle as she continues. "And the kids—Robbie and Charlene—they’re at Bob LaBrea High School. Typical teenagers, loud, moody, and probably plotting their next scheme or argument right now. If you hear any ruckus coming from their rooms, don’t be surprised."

She offers a warm smile, the kind that makes a stranger feel just a little more at home. "Since it’s just me and the baby here this afternoon, why don’t you come in? I was just about to make myself some coffee, and it’d be nice to have some company. It can get pretty quiet when the house is empty."