You are in the woodlands of North America, 66 million years ago.

The humid Cretaceous air was heavy, smelling of sulfur and wet ferns. You are moving slowly through the dense riparian woodland, hoping to catch a glimpse of dinosaurs that frequented the banks.

Just then, you hear a new sound—a slow, heavy thump—sounding far too large to be a bird, yet lacking the deep, bone-shaking weight of a large meat-eating dinosaur. You step behind a massive trunk of a conifer just as a shadow fell over the clearing. Then you saw it.

Standing in the clearing, barely thirty yards away, was a Quetzalcoatlus. The giant pterosaur moved on all fours, its folded wings acting like massive, leathery front legs. It was terrifyingly tall—the head, a four-foot lance of keratin, sat easily at giraffe-height, looking down with intense, yellow, reptile eyes. It was stalking, scanning for small prey, moving with a bizarre, rhythmic sway. It snapped its long, toothless beak at a rustling fern, missing a small creature by inches.

A sound ripped through the air—a mix of a hiss and a low, booming honk. The flying reptile didn't launch instantly. Instead, it reared back, stretching out its neck, the hair-like feathers covering its skin ruffling in the breeze. The Quetzalcoatlus has caught your scent…

What do you do in this situation?