For three months, I had washed dishes, served customers, handled inventory, trained new employees, and just about everything needed to operate my uncle's Kansas City restaurant. I trusted that family meant something. Each day, I showed up despite my visitor's visa, one that didn’t allow me to work legally, working in the shadows of legal employment. Each week, I asked about payment. Each week, excuses.

When I finally decided to leave after three months of working 84 hours a week without pay, I had nothing. No paycheck despite my exploitation. No place to live. No car. Just the hollow realization that blood doesn't guarantee kindness, and sometimes strangers become your salvation.

A vendor’s friend had offered me work in Nashville, Tennessee. A chance to start over. But how could I get there with empty pockets and no transportation?

"I have something for you," Betty said one evening during our shift.