During my leanest months in college, I went to Wendy's at 10:30 p.m. to buy a four-piece nugget and a small frosty. Total was $3.29. I emptied my pockets onto the laminate counter: nickels, dimes, three bent pennies, and a transit token. I was twelve cents short. My face flushed hot. I started pulling the frosty back, muttering: 'Sorry, just the nuggets, please.' The nineteen-year-old cashier with braces didn't hesitate for a microsecond. He aggressively mashed three buttons on the digital touch screen, leaned over the counter, and whispered: 'Whoops. System glitch. It rung up as a ten-piece combo with a large fry on the house. Take it before my manager looks over here.' He slid a heavy paper bag across the counter packed with enough food to feed me for two days. I tried to protest, but he just winked and said: 'Keep grinding, bro.' True dignity in America isn't charity. It is someone giving you a meal while pretending the computer was the one that made the mistake.