The move has been taxing. It’s sad enough that I have to leave the house on St. George Street. But the fact that I have to move out with nowhere to go has made things worse. Soon, all of my worldly possessions will be packed away in a 10 x 10 ft. storage unit, and I will be homeless.

I'm sitting in the parking lot, staring at the storage office, contemplating my next move. The day before, I was assured on the phone that they'd be open by 9 A.M. I'd had to go before work since they'd be closing early, and I can't drive after sundown due to my car's lack of headlights. The sign on the door reads, “CLOSED". Panic is setting in.

“Well, shit.” It's been a long year.

Movement catches my eye. A hand waving frantically from inside the office. The door opens, and I follow the sounds of apology inside.

“I didn't turn the sign! I'm so sorry, I just have a million things to do. I forgot to flip the sign!” I'm let in by a petite woman in her 60s. Theresa. Her short, unnaturally mahogany hair threatens to give way to grayish roots. She speaks in one breath as we walk to the counter and begin paperwork. While she clicks away on the computer, she turns to me.

“Are you ready for 2009?” She catches me off guard. I've been so focused on the move that it hasn't really hit me that today is New Year's Eve.

“Oh…I don't know,” I say, trying to edge away from this conversation. Theresa reaches across the countertop and places her hand over mine.

“Let's make a pact,” she says. “Let's promise that 2009 will be a better year than 2008.”

I think back over the past year. The death of my grandfather, my father's heart attack, depression, endless phone and car troubles. I'm only 23, and now homeless.

Theresa looks to me, pleadingly. I smile, and place my other hand atop hers.

“Yes, 2009 HAS to be better than 2008.”

A minute later, we are in a golf cart on our way to my storage unit. We pick up a straggler, a heavy set man in his 50s and Theresa regales us with excitement over her son's upcoming nuptials. I take this as a happy distraction from the bleak reality we are about to view. When we arrive at the unit, I stand before its vast emptiness, feeling lost, and impossibly small. I nod, and silently re-board the cart back to the office.

Once inside, I watch the man as he pats the stack of papers before him into a neat pile. His t-shirt is tucked into his belted jeans, his arms folding across his chest.

“I have a problem,” he begins. His apartment complex is condemned, he needs to be out by tomorrow.

“Seems like you're having a tough year, too,” Theresa comments. We catch each other's eye. We have the same thought.

“You should join us,” she says. “We made a pact that 2009 will be a better year.”

She reaches out, placing one of her hands over mine, her other over the man's. And for a moment we sit in a triangle of hope, three strangers with the same dream.

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Find Amanda Mullen on Instagram at @apandaabroad