At dusk they pour into the parking lots. Tow trucks prowling apartment complexes, searching for their next victim. They found mine.

As a new immigrant in America I needed three things. A job, a place to stay, and reliable transportation. I had the first two. Serving tables at a Latin restaurant in Austin for barely enough to get by and crashing on a friend’s couch. But that morning, as I stared at the empty parking space where my car should have been, I watched the third necessity vanish.

I stood paralyzed, my stomach hollowing. The car, which I bought from a dishwasher back in Kansas, was still being paid off, and now it sat in an impound lot with a fine I couldn’t afford.

I had no credit cards. No credit history. Just a debit card with barely enough for the Uber to work. After paying for that ride, my pockets were empty. I had no money for food, for the return trip, or for the crushing fee. In the restaurant kitchen, sweat beaded along my collar as reality set in. I needed money to get my car back.