ONE THING WAS FOR SURE, I hadn’t imagined it—the dinosaur’s prints ended precisely where it had disappeared.
“Don’t go any further,” I warned. “The portal—or whatever it is—is right there.” I pointed at the final footprint.
Dillon just stood there, his hands on his hips.
“Okay, so there’s prints,” he said, looking down at the two-foot-long indentations, the sun having really brought out his freckles. “Who’s to say you didn’t make them yourself?”
I adjusted the strap of my book bag, which was digging into my shoulder. “Because I’m not a liar, like your mother. Besides, the dragonflies. Did you forget about them?”
Dillon dropped his own bag and knelt beside one of the tracks. “Dragonflies are one thing ...” He touched the roughly-compressed silt, which had a pattern of concentric rings,
