For three months, I washed dishes, served customers, handled inventory, trained new employees, and did just about everything else it took to run my uncle’s restaurant in Kansas City. I worked 84 hours a week and trusted that family meant something. Each week, I asked about my pay. Each week, excuses. Months went by, and the paycheck never came.

When I finally decided to leave, I walked out with no paycheck, no place to live, and no car. All I had was the hollow realization that blood doesn’t guarantee kindness, and that help sometimes comes from people who owe you nothing.

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 way to drive?