I knew the odds were against me, a divorced 20-year-old with two babies under the age of four, trying to escape a life that started with an abusive stepfather and now on the run from the fate of a life in a small town with an abusive ex-husband.

I had promised myself, come hell or high water, I would live the life I had always dreamed of, and now, I was making my way down the California I-10 freeway to the city with the Hollywood sign on the hill.

Reality set in 15 miles down the busy road as my daughter, Robin, and I sang along with Elvis's "It's Now or Never" playing on the radio. My youngest, Chris, slept soundly, lost in his baby boy dreams under his blue blanket on the back seat.

Suddenly, my newly purchased used dream car, said to be in perfect condition by the lying salesman, took its last gulp of gas and drove its last mile. I pulled over safely to the side of the road. I got out, walked around the car, and lifted the hood. My heart sank. I knew all about blown engines from my ex, and I realized my new car’s demise.

A tear fell on the hot engine, and I watched it sizzle; while holding back a hysterical giggle, I weighed my options: Should I call home? Should I go back? I couldn't do that.

Lost in my dilemma while calming Robin down, I looked up as a highway patrol officer pulled up to my rescue, asking if I needed help. What I needed was a miracle, but all I had was this man telling me what I already knew: the engine was blown.

"Can I take you to a phone booth so you can call your husband?" he asked, rocking back and forth with his hands in his pockets.
I didn't have to think long about that.

"Nope, please take us to the nearest bus station," I said as I turned to grab what I could from the car, gathered the kids, wiped the last tear from my face, and then locked the car doors.

We were going to Hollywood. There was no turning back, car, or no car. We were taking the bus.