You didn't sleep well last night, having woken up any number of times with nightmares about the triceratops stampede. Also, the pain pill you popped didn't do squat. Moving hurts. When you mention this, concern fills Brett's face. "Let's have a look."
You hesitate. There are times when it's good to try to power through on your own. This is not one of them. You know that.
Picking up on your reluctance, she says, "I absolutely insist." She pulls out her first-aid kit, at which point you protest that your own field-medicine techniques are improving. "I should think so," she replies, and then gets down to business. You watch closely and find that you've absorbed a good deal of what she's taught you, which pleases both of you.
While doing so, you weigh a couple of options for striking out into unexplored terrain, including a geothermal area. Suddenly, a flare rockets up into the clear blue sky. It's unmistakable even without binoculars, and it can only mean that Vance and company must be in trouble.
"Looks like we're the only cavalry to come riding over the hill for the next 67 million years." You couldn't live with yourself if you were to ignore the distress call.
Brett gives you a grim-faced nod. "Let's roll." You hastily stow your gear in the Land Rover and head toward the source of the flare.
Flare