By Daniel Romo
I’ve been through the desert on a horse named Bruce Wayne. It took longer than anticipated. He stopped every time he looked up and saw a constellation that resembled a bat. I stroked his mane as if to say, there’s a whole world full of villains and superheroes, and cities will always need saving. It was a sinful summer in Death Valley. The cacti rejoiced in their unique pluralization. The rattlesnakes ached for my raw ankles to be exposed. And the coyotes’ nightly howling could be mistaken for Robin’s cries asking Batman, Where are youuuuuu?