Day Zero

Day Zero – Evening

The evening air held the gentle warmth of early summer, a pleasant freshness against Jane’s skin as she walked the familiar route home. At thirty-one, her petite frame was clad in the simple, comfortable clothes she wore for work at the urban support center: well-fitting jeans, a plain cotton shirt, and a light summer jacket she’d unzipped. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail. Though tired, her natural grace was evident in her slender legs and the narrow curve of her waist, which contrasted with the fuller shape of her breasts hinted at beneath her shirt.

The day had been its usual blur of constant motion—managing intake assessments for new residents, helping a client untangle a web of social service bureaucracy, and overseeing the preparation of the evening meal for dozens. It was work that was more about logistics than connection, a cycle of practical tasks that kept the facility running. With so many people relying on them, the staff rarely had the time to move beyond brief, friendly exchanges; the deep, personal bonds she craved were often the first casualty of the endless to-do list. It left her with the familiar, drained feeling of a day spent being useful, but not truly fulfilled.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment, the familiar creak of the third step a comforting sound. Pushing open her apartment door, she was greeted by the warm, savory scent of takeaway food. Peter, her husband of five years, was already there. At thirty-five, he carried himself with a quiet, solid assurance typical of his work in corporate strategy. He stood in the soft kitchen light, having changed out of his work suit into dark trousers and a simple t-shirt that fit the lean strength of his chest and shoulders. He was unpacking containers from a paper bag with efficient movements.

“I thought we could use a night off from cooking,” he said, his voice a low, welcoming rumble as he looked up. His gaze, sharp and perceptive, took her in—the slight slump of her shoulders, the faint shadows under her eyes. He didn’t ask if she was okay; the answer was clear in her weary posture. “Long day?”

Jane managed a small, tired smile, dropping her bag by the door. “The longest.” She moved toward the kitchen island, drawn by the smell of food and his steady presence. “But this smells amazing. Thank you.”

He gestured toward the containers. “It’s all ready. But you look like you need to talk more than you need to eat right now.” He leaned against the counter, his full attention on her, creating a space for her to unload the weight she carried. The food could wait; this couldn’t.

Jane sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of the day, and ran a hand through her hair. “We had an emergency staff meeting. It turns out a new government directive came down a few months ago, and our center applied to take part in the corresponding pilot program.”

That got his attention. He put his phone down, his full focus on her. “What kind of program?”

Jane nodded, her expression a mixture of professional interest and mild alarm. “It’s a new rehabilitation program for high-risk citizens. It’s called the Support for Holistic Assimilation via Relational and Emotional Development Program—the SHARED Program.”

Peter’s eyebrows lifted. A slow smile touched his lips. “SHARED,” he repeated, the word lingering between them. “That’s a very ... suggestive acronym for a government program.” His gaze was warm, his tone lightly teasing, but it carried a distinct, intimate weight. “Sounds like they’re being very literal about the ‘sharing’ part.”

Jane shot him a look, a faint blush already warming her cheeks. “Don’t start. It’s a perfectly good acronym. It’s a response to a perfect storm—skyrocketing social service costs, a critical shortage of qualified mental health professionals, and a generation of young people, especially men, falling completely through the cracks. The prisons and shelters are overflowing, and the traditional models are failing. The government invited facilities to participate voluntarily to help design the operational framework. It’s all very high-level and vague right now—the whole point is to implement the theory and see what works in practice.”

“Okay, what’s the catch?” Peter asked, his smile fading back into skepticism.

“That’s just the official story,” Jane said, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “The way the director presented it, he made it sound like a last-minute plea from the ministry that he ‘graciously accepted’ for the greater good.” She let out a short, bitter laugh and leaned in slightly. “But I was talking to the admin assistant after the meeting. She told me the truth—he actually volunteered our center months ago to secure the extra funding before the deadline.” She shook her head in frustration. “And I’d bet anything he was so focused on the grant amount he didn’t even read the full eligibility framework. He probably just saw ‘social work’ and ‘volunteer’ and assumed we’d all qualify.”

She paused, letting the deception and negligence sink in before continuing. “The problem is, he only just realized the ministry’s compliance check is tomorrow at noon. They’re auditing the building and the staff roster for this new role. The first participants are scheduled to be enrolled tomorrow afternoon, but only if we pass the inspection. And he never actually assigned anyone to the SHARED Agent position.”

“So if no one steps up by tomorrow,” Peter concluded, his tone flat, “the center fails, and the funding is pulled.”

“Precisely,” Jane said, the single word laden with all the exhaustion and frustration of the day. “His noble plea for volunteers is just a last-ditch effort to clean up his own mess.”

She looked at Peter, her expression softening with a hint of conviction. “His reasons are cynical, at best. But despite that, the SHARED Program’s core idea is what I believe in. The official wording talks about providing ‘profound emotional acceptance’ and acting as a ‘primary source of comfort’ for newly enrolled residents—people who’ve fallen through the cracks, like homeless youth or former inmates. The theory is radical, and I know it sounds vague, but it’s born out of desperation. The thinking is that without this intense, one-on-one human anchor from day one, these individuals will just cycle right back into crisis, costing the system even more. It’s a high-risk, high-reward experiment.”

Peter’s brow furrowed thoughtfully as he absorbed this. He picked up his glass of water, taking a slow sip. Jane could tell he was turning the phrases over in his mind. He set the glass down, a wry smile playing on his lips. “‘Primary source of comfort’? Well, that’s a conveniently broad job description for a SHARED Agent. That could be anything from listening to their problems and holding their hand to ... well, full-on sex. I mean, let’s be honest,” he added with a dark chuckle, “for a lot of people, that’s the ultimate comfort.”