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.
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.
(e.g., Pine Hills, Kissimmee, Winter Park)
He stopped in front of a lot with a neon sign flickering:
