"It can't possibly be as close as it sounds," you begin. "They roam the open scrublands, not the forest."
Brett's worried expression deepens as she looks past you.
From behind an ancient conifer, a great brown triceratops—one that would dwarf a buffalo—struts toward the Way Way Wayback Machine. The scientist in you can't help but take note that the dinosaur's bony head frill has flushed persimmon pink. That can't be good. Could this indicate the presence of blood vessels close beneath the skin that swell and pulsate, like a person whose face turns red with exertion or rage? The beast's size-48 feet crush pinecones, small plants, everything in its way. Its massive head bears a trio of horns that you've come to fear and detest, two-foot-long horns sharp and encrusted with something best not thought about. They're pointed straight at your Land Rover.
"Maybe if we just sit here motionless," you mutter. "Not attract any more attention…"
Naturally, this is the moment when the orange shimmer cascades all about the time machine like a giant neon sign advertising that the time window is open.
"Guth, if you want to try heading home this second, I'm good with that."
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