The desert wants me dead.

The wind blows in , and my synapses go crazy. Last year had me fainting and falling into walls til I was sure I was having a stroke.

Doctor took one look in my ears and told me I had water in there. “Spring super bloom causes this!” he said.


I dissolved into tears, all my stoicism rushing out as relief swept in. “I thought I was dying!” I cried. “Not today!” he laughed. “Today you have allergies.”

Here we are again, a year later, no super bloom, just a regular old Spring. And I swear I’m dying again.

My only way out of this misery is a quick escape up and over the mountain. That, or death.

“Don’t challenge us mortal!” the Anza and Borrego gods warn. “Stay and you will not be the victor.” We’re heading for the hills.

Twice in this desert,  during Spring. Two strikes against me. There won’t be a third time. Instead, we’ll sneak in during Winter, while the Spring gods sleep.