The heavy door creaked open as Maher and Ameer were ushered into the dimly lit office. The air was thick with the scent of stale tobacco and old leather. Behind a large oak desk sat the head general of the facility, his cold eyes scanning them with detached indifference. His uniform was crisp, the medals on his chest glinting under the flickering fluorescent light.
"You two should be on your knees begging for mercy," the general said, his voice a low growl. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "If it weren't for the call we just received, you'd still be rotting in that dark hole. Indefinitely."
Maher exchanged a glance with Ameer, whose face was pale but set in stubborn defiance. Neither spoke.
The general slid a stack of papers across the desk, followed by a pen. "Sign these. Consider it your ticket out of here. Be thankful that you got out of this with only a few months of jail."
Ameer hesitated. "What are we signing?"
The general's lip curled. "Your confession. Your agreement to never speak of this place. To never tell anyone of what you saw and what happened in this place, or we will find you and bring you back here, and next time we will drag your loved ones too, so you should show some gratitude for not being left to die." His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk. "Unless you'd prefer to go back to your cell?"
Maher grabbed the pen first, scribbling his name without reading. Ameer hesitated a moment longer before doing the same.
The general smirked, collecting the papers. "Good choice." He nodded to the soldier standing by the door. "Get them out of my sight."
---
The soldier marched them through the facility, their footsteps echoing in the sterile halls. Outside, the cold night air bit at their skin as they were shoved into the back of a windowless van. Rough hands tied blindfolds over their eyes before the doors slammed shut.
The engine roared to life, and the van lurched forward. For over an hour, they bounced along uneven roads in silence, the only sounds the rumble of the engine and the occasional muttered curse from the driver.
Finally, the van screeched to a halt. The doors flew open, and strong hands hauled them out, tearing off the blindfolds. Maher blinked against the sudden glare of the rising sun. They stood in the middle of nowhere—barren land stretching in every direction, no roads, no signs of civilization.
Before they could speak, the soldier shoved a canteen of water into Maher's hands. "Walk that way," he grunted, pointing toward the horizon. "If you're lucky, you'll find a road before you die of thirst."
With that, he climbed back into the van, tires kicking up dust as it sped away, leaving them alone in the vast, empty wilderness.
Ameer turned to Maher, his voice hoarse. "What now?"
Maher tightened his grip on the canteen. "Now, we walk."
The sun hung heavy in the sky as Maher and Ameer stumbled toward a weather-beaten shack, its wooden planks bleached by years of relentless heat. A faded sign above the door swayed in the wind, the letters barely legible. Exhausted, their clothes torn and their bodies bruised, they pushed open the creaking door.
Inside, the dim space smelled of spices and aged wood. An old man with a deeply lined face and a thick white beard sat behind a counter, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in their ragged appearance.
"Salaam," Maher croaked, his voice raw. "Do you have a phone? We need help."
The old man studied them for a long moment before sighing. "Ya Allah, what happened to you two?" He shook his head, muttering under his breath as he rounded the counter. "Come, come. This way, I don't have a phone but you can stay with my family until my cousin comes tomorrow, he drives a truck, he'll take you to the city."
Ameer swayed slightly, bracing himself against the wall. "Thank you, we're sorry to trouble you" he managed to say in a hoars voice.
The old man shook his head "It's ok, don't worry about it son" he muttered. Without another word, he motioned for them to follow. "My tent is behind the shop. My wife will feed you. You need more than a phone right now."
The old man led them to a large, patched-up tent where the scent of stewing lamb and fresh bread filled the air. A stout elderly woman with kind eyes—his wife—gasped when she saw them.
"Ya Allah!" she exclaimed, rushing forward. "Look at them, Hussein! They're half-dead!"
"Get them water and food," the old man, Hussein, said firmly. "And the medicine box."
A younger woman—their daughter—hurried in with a clay jug and cups, pressing water into their hands. "Drink slowly," she urged. "You'll make yourselves sick if you gulp it."
Maher obeyed, the cool liquid soothing his cracked lips. "Thank you," he whispered.
The wife, Umm Hashim, ushered them to sit on worn cushions. "Eat first," she insisted, placing a steaming bowl of soup and flatbread in front of them. "Then we'll see to those wounds."
Ameer didn't argue. He tore into the bread like a starving man, his hands shaking.
Hussein watched them with a mix of pity and anger. "Who did this to you?"
Maher hesitated, exchanging a glance with Ameer. "Men in uniforms," he said finally. "We signed papers. They told us never to speak of it."
Umm Hashim made a disapproving sound. "No papers stop a man from speaking the truth when he's ready." She dabbed at a cut on Ameer's forehead with a damp cloth, her touch gentle.
Hussein grunted. "Rest here tonight. Tomorrow, my cousin will take you to the city. You can find your way from there."
Maher nodded, the exhaustion hitting him all at once. "We won't forget this kindness."
Umm Hashim smiled faintly. "In this life, we are all travelers. Some days, we are the ones in need. Other days, we are the ones who give."
As the firelight flickered and the night settled around them, Maher and Ameer finally allowed themselves to breathe—knowing that, for now at least, they were safe.
Despite how tired Maher was he couldn't sleep, mainly because his back was killing him, but he didn't want to trouble umm Hashim with this, he could tell she was a woman of a pure heart, he didn't want her to see such hidoes sight.
Ameer knew about his back and he noticed him twisting and turning all night, he turned to him and wishpered "Maher, are you ok?"
Maher sighed, he didn't mean to wake anyone up, he turned towards Ameer and wishpered "I'm fine, go back to sleep."
Ameer knew that Maher was acting tough, he asked "is it your back?"
Maher answered carefully—he didn't want to be exposed. "Believe me, I'm fine. I'm just tired. You're tired too; go to sleep."
Then Maher turned away from Ameer and tried to sleep. After a few minutes, he could hear Ameer breathing smoothly. He was assured that his friend had fallen asleep at last.
He tried to sit up. Slowly and quietly, he got out of the tent and sat outside, gazing out at the stars. He had never been to the desert before, and to his surprise, he found it absolutely beautiful. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, imagined that he had come here camping with his friends. He could almost hear Hasan laughing at his own jokes while Omar cooked something for them, and they all ate together and laughed. It was a nice dream.
Without realizing it, he had fallen asleep outside the tent.
The next morning, the rumble of an old diesel engine broke the quiet of the desert. A battered pickup truck rolled up to the tent, kicking up dust as it came to a stop. Behind the wheel sat a broad-shouldered man with a sun-darkened face—Hussein's cousin, Abbas.
Hussein stepped out of the tent, waving him over. "Welcome cousin, Alhamdulliah you came early we need your help." he said, gesturing to Maher and Ameer. "Take them to the city. They need to get there as soon as possible ."
Abbas eyed them, then nodded. "Hop in. I'm heading that way anyway."
Before they left, Umm Hashim pressed a bundle of bread and dried meat into their hands. "For the road," she said. "May Allah protect you."
As the truck rattled onto the rough desert path, Abbas glanced at them in the rearview mirror. "You two look like you've been through hell."
Ameer gave a tired laugh. "Something like that."
Abbas reached into his pocket and pulled out an old flip phone, handing it to them. "Here. Call your families. Let them know you're alive."
Ameer took it first, fingers trembling as he dialed. After a few rings, his mother's voice—frantic with worry—crackled through the speaker when she found out it was him.
"Ameer?! Ya habibi, where are you?!"
"I'm okay, Mama," he said, voice tight. "I'm coming home. I'll explain everything when I get there."
"What happened? We've been sick with fear!"
"I know, I know. Just… don't ask questions now. I'm safe. That's all that matters." He swallowed hard. "I'll be there soon."
He hung up before she could press further, then passed the phone to Maher.
Maher hesitated, then dialed a different number.
Hasan answered on the second ring. "Who is this?"
"It's me," Maher said, voice low.
"Maher?! Where have you been?"
"Listen," Maher cut him off. "I need you to get a first aid kit—bandages, antiseptic, painkillers—and meet me at Omar's place. Fast."
"What happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'll explain when I get there. Just be ready." He hung up before Hasan could argue.
Ameer frowned. "You're not calling your family?"
Maher pocketed the phone, jaw set. "Not yet."
Abbas glanced between them but said nothing. The truck rolled on, the city's distant skyline finally coming into view.
____
Omar and Hasan were waiting impatiently, as soon as they heard a faint knock on the door they hurried to answer it.
Maher couldn't take it anymore, he had collapsed at the doorstep, his body trembling, his clothes soaked in sweat and blood. Hasan and Omar, who had terrified looks on their faces rushed forward.
"Maher!" Hasan shouted, dropping to his knees beside him. "What happened to you?"
Omar grabbed Maher's arm, his face pale as he saw the raw, wounds on his friend's body.
Without another word, they hauled Maher up, his groans of pain muffled by gritted teeth, and carried him upstairs. They laid him face-down on the bed, where Hasan immediately began cleaning the wounds with shaking hands.
"This isn't just whipping," Hasan said, his voice tight with fury as he saw Maher's back "They drew on him. Like he was some kind of—Omar, we need to take him to a hospital. Now."
Maher's hand shot out, gripping Hasan's wrist with surprising strength. His breathing was ragged, but his voice was firm. "No hospitals. No doctors. No calls."
Hasan shook his head. "Are you insane? You could get an infection, or—"
"Listen to me," Maher hissed, his eyes burning with urgency. "If you take me there, they'll find me. They'll find you And then we're all dead."
Omar and Hasan exchanged a tense look.
"Then what do we do?"Omar asked, his voice low.
Maher let out a shuddering breath. "You patch me up. And then we talk."
Hasan clenched his jaw, then grabbed the antiseptic again. "This is going to hurt a lot."
Maher buried his face in the pillow.
"Just do it."
As Hasan worked, Omar paced the room, his fists clenched. "Who did this?"
Maher didn't answer. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the occasional hiss of pain as Hasan treated the wounds—each stroke of the cloth a reminder of the cruelty they were up against.
And outside, the night stretched on, silent and watchful.