The RV empties as everyone stares at you, then at the bonfire, which has already died back, then at you.
Lastly, Vance emerges from his makeshift shelter, appearing every bit as deathly pale and shaky on his feet as you feel. Slowly, he makes his way to you. In the center of the clearing, he gives you a bear hug.
Everyone is shell-shocked and nakedly aware of how near all of you came to disaster. Eventually, you all start to focus on what comes next. Your prior discussions about staying longer were absurdly naive and sorely in need of radical reevaluation. Vance, in particular, is hell-bent on getting home. But of course, that's not happening for the RV.
You look around as it sinks in that you've got to ferry everyone home in your time machine. Their clenched jaws underscore how much they depend on you. It's a tight squeeze, even after pitching everything you don't absolutely need, including the back seats. For the last time, you drive to the pterosaur nest, where it all began. A lump forms in your throat while you work through the preflight checklist. What's up with that?