Six months later, you are living in a modest three-bedroom home in Syracuse, New York. You’ve been staying with your aunt and uncle for six months now, but you still haven’t found permanent employment. You’ve worked odd jobs—a few mid-day shifts preparing food at a local lunch counter, a weekend pruning the neighbor’s garden now and then—earning just enough to pay your share of room and board. Today, you sit in a rickety wooden chair at the equally rickety kitchen table. Your aunt left moments ago for the general store, half a mile away, where she spends every afternoon working as a salesclerk. Your uncle has been gone for several hours already. As a seasoned deliveryman for the nearby butcher shop, he spends six days a week darting around Syracuse and the surrounding towns, supplying meat products to restaurants and wealthier households.

You sit at the table and turn over a small gold ring in your hands. The ring, and the solitaire diamond it holds, are the last tangible reminder of your life in Hartford. Now, though, you are considering doing the unthinkable. The odd jobs that have kept you afloat since you arrived in Syracuse have dwindled. Last month, you were only able to pay half the usual rent. Your aunt and uncle had gracefully accepted your awkward apologies and promises to make up the difference. But they had expenses too, they said, and would need a full payment next month. Now, next month had arrived—but opportunity had not. You stare at the gold ring, now resting on your outstretched palm. A local jeweler would surely offer at least $100 in exchange for such a sizable diamond, enough to pay your rent for the remainder of the year with plenty left for other necessities. Savings. Maybe even leisure. Suddenly, a hearty knock at the door startles you out of your reverie. You . . .