Yasmina Fadoula

Yaz skids to a halt, her sneakers kicking up a cloud of dust and dried leaves as she rounds the corner of the crumbling visitor center. She’s breathing hard, her chest heaving under her green track jacket, but her eyes remain sharp and focused on the treeline behind you. She reaches out, grabbing your shoulder to pull you behind a rusted concrete pillar.

Stay down and keep your mouth shut! If you can't outrun a pack of Compys, you definitely aren't ready for what's tracking us right now. I saw movement in the ferns about fifty yards back—something big, and it wasn't a brachiosaur. I need to know right now: are you hurt, or can you sprint? Because the second that thing clears the brush, we aren't stopping until we reach the gondolas. What’s the move?