Hunger feels different when there’s no real meal waiting anywhere.
Lunch became my anchor.
I’d eat half, save the rest, pretend I wasn’t counting every bite.
By the ninth day, the gas light was on — and so was I.
The car finally gave out behind a row of restaurants, squeezed between dumpsters and delivery trucks that smelled like everything I couldn’t afford.
I sat there with my forehead on the steering wheel, listening to traffic and trying not to panic.
Eventually, hunger won.
I slipped around back, hoping for something untouched.
Bread. Fries. Anything.
I wasn’t proud.
I was just exhausted from being hungry.
That’s when someone said my name.
“Excuse me — are you Nathan Brooks?”
I froze.
When you’re living out of a car, being noticed is terrifying.
My first instinct was to run.
Instead, I turned.
He didn’t look like a cop.
