The district operator uncovered the reserve switch herself. A liaison stood on the other side of the table with his hand on a message from the central junction, but he did not reach across her. The order of the switches had been painted by people who expected to live beside them. A short black lever, close to her knee, would interrupt the supply without waiting for anyone below to agree.
She asked the shelter attendant to repeat the count. The number included the medical group and the families from the first convoy, not the last group still on the road. That distinction had survived so many hurried messages that she said it once more for the people behind her.
“Last group isn’t through. We have their position. We do not have their arrival.”
One of the residents who had opposed the early transfer stood by the open entrance. He had brought a sack containing the tools he could carry from his repair room. He had not withdrawn the objection. The operator had kept his words beside the agreement when the liaison suggested they needed only the final vote.
Outside, the district defenders moved a portable lamp toward the shelter approach. Its dimmer light showed how much of the usual protection had already been lost. They had an alternate entrance, barriers they could move by hand, and local power held back under the agreed minimum. None of those things was equivalent to the full outer barrier.
