You are in the forests of North America, 67 million years ago.

The air in the Late Cretaceous forest was thick, humid, and smelled intensely of rotting magnolia leaves. You kept low, moving cautiously through the dense undergrowth, the giant ferns acting as a canopy that blotted out most of the sun. You were not looking for T. rex today; you were looking for the little things.

A rustling to your left made you freeze. It wasn't the heavy, plodding sound of a Triceratops—it was light, nimble, and quick. You parted a large frond. About ten feet away, perched on a mossy log, was a Leptoceratops.

It was roughly the size of a large dog, perhaps a little smaller, with a narrow, pig-like body covered in scabby, mottled brown scales that helped it vanish into the twilight of the forest floor. It didn't look like the mighty, armored ceratopsians you were used to. It looked… efficient.

The Leptoceratops stopped chewing, the remnants of a horsetail plant still sticking out of its beak, and turned its head sharply. It didn’t display the immediate panic of a panicked animal. Instead, its large, intelligent eyes watched you, scanning. It seemed to be calculating whether you were a threat.