It started out as just another one of those days for Daniel Hillman, respected high school principal and father. More students go to his office in one day than they do to the Chik-Fil-A in a year. Each new day welcomes more forms to sign and board meetings to attend.

But this particular day was unlike any other. As Mr. Hillman sat dutifully in his chair, writing out a referral, his focus was interrupted by the sound of an alarm coming from his iPhone: Amber Alert: 4-year-old boy, last seen in a red Acura on highway 580. With a deep sigh, Mr. Hillman got up from his chair and headed towards his car. When incidents such as the one displayed in the Amber Alert occurred, Mr. Hillman always dropped his daily tasks to deal with the problem. It was a matter of life or death; unlike the usual bank robbery or prison escape that happened about twice a month, this was a child.

As he approached his neighborhood, instead of taking the usual route that led his car straight into the garage of his home, he made a right turn into the house three blocks down and pulled out his black remote with a red button on it. The house had not been occupied by regular citizens since 2007. He used that to his advantage. Approaching the garage of this unoccupied house, he routinely (but swiftly) pressed the red button and zoomed his car into the tunnel.

Mr. Hillman secretly had the entire house modified to accommodate his 1955 Lincoln Futura (which of course had been upgraded to a style that befit his alter ego). What used to be a 3-bedroom house was now a headquarters paneled with futuristic high-tech computers, holding everything from an 80-kilowatt transmitter to ionospheric reflection.

“Welcome Mr. Hillman,” the computer in the wall said.

“Hello Mabel, I’ll need a route on the GPS as soon as possible. Fuel her up; check the atmospheric pressure down in the tunnel. I’ll be back in exactly four minutes for departure.”

Mr. Hillman then went to his clothing compartment to change into his suit (which was a little tighter than usual).

“All preparations made, sir,” started Mabel. “The GPS is set to start route in 2.13 seconds. You are estimated to arrive within close range of the target in 13.5 minutes.” All of the lights in the car turned on, and in front of him the single-car garage door opened, which revealed the dimly lit 5-mile-long tunnel.

“Alright Mabel, I’m out.”

Mr. Hillman drove downwards into the tunnel and checked the time. 3:15 already?, he thought to himself. He decided to call home.

“Danny?” said a voice through the Bluetooth.

“Did you see the Amber Alert?”

“Yes, I did. You know what you have to do, right?”

“Already on my way.”

“Okay. You save that child. This city is fortunate to have men like you. Be careful. Call me when you get back; I love you.”

Mr. Hillman always took the time in his car to reflect on what he was doing. Taking the matter of the law into my own hands is a necessary evil for matters like this, he thought, as he gazed at his mask in the rear-view mirror. He thought comically about what a lie the whole Batman story was. There is no Bruce Wayne, no such thing as Gotham City. It’s difficult for people to comprehend that the real heroes don’t always live in such exaggerated glamour and excitement. Sometimes, the real heroes can be found in small, upper middle-class San Ramon.

But that was a lesson that the world needed to learn on its own and another day. Daniel Hillman was not the hero San Ramon needs; he is the hero San Ramon deserves.