Coordinator Carol keeps tallying the shelter's dangers — 41 death-slugs today, dwindling food — and hears from Elvi the flat truth: nothing on this planet is edible.
Carol Chiwewe keeps running the shelter through the compounding disasters, checking on Elvi hour by hour with hard numbers: forty-one death-slugs caught in a day (an uptick despite lighter rain), her hope they'd retreat as it dried dashed. Flat-voiced with buried despair, she raises the deepest problem — 'We're running out of food' — and clings to the idea that 'there has to be something on this planet we can eat,' only for Elvi to answer plainly, 'There isn't.' The supply drops help but won't last. As blindness spreads and the camp draws tighter into the ruins, Carol remains the practical accountant of their survival, tracking slugs and food and the closing margin between them and starvation.
The colony's steady older coordinator; here tired and worn, herself going blurry-and-green-eyed to the plague like everyone, voice level over rising despair.
First Landing's coordinator; the level tallykeeper of the shelter's slug catches and shrinking food as starvation looms.