Amid the endless winding streets of Henderson, Nevada, one house breaks the mold. Its front yard – no grass, just desert rock – is home to 62 rainbow-painted dinosaurs, dragons, turtles and spiders. A sign on the garage reads: “Shan-gri-la Prehistoric Park”, complete with visiting hours.

On a recent spring Friday at noon, the garage door hums open, letting in the harsh sun. Steve Springer, or “Dinoman” as he’s lovingly known by regulars of the park, ties a short black apron printed with cartoon dinosaurs around his waist. At 72, he likes to wear flip-flops with black socks and round glasses that make his eyes look tiny.

We are at Steve’s Dinosaur House, a makeshift project aiming to provide education in an entertaining way for the general public. Steve spends about half of his retirement income keeping the park running – about $2,000 a month.

Parked inside the garage is his pride and joy: the Dinomobile, a mid-1990s sedan wrapped in digitized dinosaur graphics and electric green rims. Playful dinosaur stuffed plushies peer out from every window, and the rear license plate shouts in all caps: “DINOMAN”. In the corner hangs an LED TV screen playing a six-hour loop of dinosaur videos Steve has pulled and edited from YouTube. Along each wall, candy, chips and cookies are lined up neatly on folding tables.

It’s a funhouse, an arcade, a makeshift carnival where the mood is always joyful. “No talk of politics or religion is allowed. You come here to get away from the world,” Steve insists.

Inside the house, Steve quickly prepares for the day, placing sour pops in the empty freezer. “It’s just me here, so I eat out about six times a week,” he says. His bookshelves are neatly lined with thousands of horror and science fiction films. Awards for outstanding teacher are hung on the wall.

With summer around the corner, Steve packs up the inflatable Easter decorations, stores the pastel LED lights and eggs, and switches themes again: “Summer Dragon Days”. His back porch holds aisle after aisle of clear plastic bins stacked 10 ft high, labeled: July 4, Valentine’s Day, Easter, Christmas, Halloween, summer. Inside: disco balls, pool floats, water guns, bunny inflatables, Valentine hearts, fabric donuts.

Out front, people start to trickle in. “How we doin’ today? We got new stuff,” Steve calls out, grinning.

Janam Riffle and his mom, Jenny, are regulars. “He’s now 10, and we’ve been coming since he was five,” she says. “While I was waiting on my disability to go through, I was very poor, and this was somewhere I could take him and it didn’t cost anything. You know when you go to Disneyland as an adult and it still makes you happy? That’s the feeling I get when I come here.

“We really needed to come today. The school held a fire drill and Janam is disabled, making it hard for him to do the stairs, so I said: ‘Let’s go to Dinoman to cheer up.’”

As the day wears on, the line stretches down the driveway and into the street. Scooters and bikes pile up while kids wait. Everyone gets a turn – and everyone plays for free. At the entrance, they sanitize their hands and grab a plastic grocery bag. Each person chooses three items from bins filled with Cow Tales and Starbursts, Takis and Lays, bouncy balls, rubber ducks, squishy creatures. “Hooray, we got a winner!” Steve cheers, pulling a ticket from his apron. Lucky guests get bonus toys or coveted “Dinobucks”, good for things like cooking sets, Barbie dolls and skateboards.

“Dine-do-man,” a tiny girl calls. “Help me reach this toy!” Her parents wait in the car – she’s got the routine down cold. Several high schoolers walk straight to the snack section, grab their food and gun it home – a free munchies oasis in the walled suburban villages outside of Las Vegas.

Dinoman knows the regulars. And he knows the kids that need an extra snack or two as well.

“Santa has one day and I have the other 364,” he says.

Tiffany and Ken Koo and their two kids, Aiden and Kaiden, eight and nine, have been coming since they were born. They make the 30-minute drive every Friday and often give back by volunteering their time polishing the neon green rims of the Dinomobile or cleaning the back patio with their dad. “We love to help Dino Steve because he helps us so much,” Ken said. The couple also run a free clinic for their local Buddhist temple.

For them, going to a movie for a family of four and buying popcorn costs more than $70. “Even the gumball machine is a dollar. Here, all of us can play. It’s entertainment for the whole family,” Tiffany said. They exit to the front yard to play a series of games.

Steve spends thousands on his project every month, but he also receives donations, and he can rely on his credit card.

After three decades of teaching middle school and running a classroom candy shop, Steve missed the kids. “My dad was a workaholic,” he says. “I knew early I didn’t want that.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got everything I want. What else should I do with the money?”

When he dies, he plans to sell off the dinosaurs, the Dinomobile and the house to fund scholarships.

Inflation means fewer toys, but Steve does his best to keep the magic alive. At 4pm, he shuts the garage and moves the perishables and chocolate inside. His feet ache, but he climbs into the Dinomobile and drives 12 minutes to The Pit, a crowded local restaurant.

At his table, he unpacks a few plastic dinosaurs and a sign advertising the park. He brings his own croutons, parmesan and cracked pepper – items not supplied by the restaurant – then orders his usual: salad, a rare Pit burger, fries cooked exactly 60 seconds and a Dr Pepper slushie.

After dinner, he heads across the lot to Dollar Tree, weaving through aisles he knows by heart. Twenty years of running the park has taught him what works. He tops off the night at the Sinclair dinosaur-themed gas station, then swings back to The Pit for one last Dr Pepper slushie.

It’s Friday night. Dinoman has done enough for one day.