But as Ray handed over the keys, the weight in Marcus's chest lifted. He walked out to the lot, the heat no longer feeling so oppressive. He climbed into the driver’s seat, cranked the AC to max, and felt the engine hum to life.

The rows of cars shimmered in the Florida humidity. A salesman named Ray, wearing a short-sleeved button-down and a practiced grin, met him halfway.

"Looking for something I can afford," Marcus corrected. "The sign says five hundred down."

The sun beat down on the asphalt of West Colonial Drive as Marcus stepped off the bus. He had $550 in his pocket—his entire tax return and three weeks of saved tips from the diner. His old sedan had given up the ghost in the middle of an I-4 traffic jam, and in Orlando, no wheels meant no work.