This Is How We Overcome

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 $500 a week and crashing on a fellow Chihuahuan'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 $250 ransom.

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—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.

"I can help you," said a voice behind me.