The meeting room was a wrecked office with plastic sheets stretched across the broken ceiling, and stale heat filled the space. Four people leaned over stacked crates and ration sheets, staring at numbers none of them wanted to read out loud.
"We're running dry," the man at the head said, tapping a clipboard full of crossed-out names. "Water is down to two liters per tent, and medical stock is gone."
"How gone?" the woman across from him asked, already sounding tired.
"Fully gone," he said, flipping one page and pressing it flat with his thumb. "The inner circle took the last batch last week, so the outer tents have been getting nothing."
No one argued, because this wasn't new and all of them had accepted it days ago. The bearded man scratched his jaw, then leaned in and pointed at the lower half of the list.
"What about overflow? We still have thirty-something unassigned."
