"The warehouse door is metal, unmarked, ordinary. Tom raises a hand. The signal. They move.

Inside, it’s all industrial chill and fluorescent light. No guards. No resistance. Just boxes. More of them than anyone cares to count. Still labeled with the names of different processors, a mass of cardboard boxes that — they check — are full of the stolen goods.

Not gold bars. Not jewels. Not electronics, or cash, even.
No, what Tom finds are almonds."

But what I found at Hot Dog U wasn’t just a quirky trade school with a great logo. People arrive from burned-out careers and unexpected life turns, from family kitchens and military mess halls, carrying stories as varied as their menus. They leave with a cart, a diploma, and — if it works — a shot at something better.
There’s something quietly radical about that. In a country where “entrepreneur” has become a buzzword for tech bros and hustlers, the students at Hot Dog U are a different breed. They're working-class dreamers.

“As a society, we try to reward those who had a lasting impact. I am not there yet — not sure if I ever will be. But I am proud of the social debate that has begun, and even prouder of its respectful nature. If there is one thing I hope to have a lasting impact other than the right to make end-of-life decisions, it is this: being able to discuss our common interests, however controversial they might be, while respecting those with different opinions.”

Fifty years ago Jack and Betty were hit by a train and survived. This is their story.