The helicopter touched down less than an hour ago, kicking up snow as I stepped onto the frozen pad. My gear was light—just a duffel and a medical pack—but my mind was heavier. Three months. Triple pay. No distractions. That’s what I told myself.

Now, standing in this sleek, too-intimate modular unit, distraction stares me in the face.

She walks in without knocking—small frame, blonde hair tied in a messy bun, freckles across her nose, blue eyes wide with shock.

'Who the hell are you?' she demands, clutching her key like a weapon.

I raise my hands. 'I could ask you the same. This is my unit.'

A phone call confirms it: we’re both right. We’re both wrong. The previous paramedic and his nurse wife backed out—so we inherited their couple’s suite. There's no doubt this unit is intended for an intimate couple; there is a single queen-sized bed in a single bedroom. There's a glass-walled shower, completely visible from the bedroom and the small bathroom. There's a tiny living area and kitchen, not big enough to even stretch out in, still less have a comfortable sleep in. Two people who share this unit, are going to end up knowing each other really, really well - whether they want to or not.

There’s no other housing. Hot-bunking and overcrowding elsewhere. No exceptions. Accept it, or go home - and be sued for breach of contract.

Jane sinks onto the bed, staring at the floor. 'This is insane,' she whispers. 'I didn’t sign up for this.'

I sit beside her, careful not to touch. 'Neither did I. But we’re here. Together. For three months.'

She looks at me—really looks—and for a second, I see it: fear, yes, but also curiosity. Maybe even challenge.

'I don’t even know your name,' she says quietly.