One cycle of the prayer beads is complete. Ninety-nine beads. Ninety-nine times “Al-Qahhar.”

She sits up and returns to her place on the mattress, next to the man’s head, and puts her right hand back on his chest. Begins another cycle of the prayer beads.

As she again reaches the ninety-ninth “Al-Qahhar,” her hand leaves the man’s chest and travels toward his neck. Her fingers wander into the bushy beard, resting there for one or two breaths, emerging to pause a moment on the lips, stroke the nose, the eyes, the brow, and finally vanish again, into the thickness of the filthy hair. “Can you feel my hand?” She leans over him, straining, and stares into his eyes. No response. She bends her ear to his lips. No sound. Just the same unsettling expression, mouth half-open, gaze lost in the dark beams of the ceiling.

She bends down again to whisper, “In the name of Allah, give me a sign to let me know that you feel my hand, that you’re alive, that you’ll come back to me, to us! Just a sign, a little sign to give me strength, and faith.” Her lips tremble. They beg, “Just a word…,” as they brush lightly over the man’s ear. “I hope you can hear me, at least.” She lays her head on the pillow.

“They told me that after two weeks you’d be able to move, to respond… But this is the third week, or nearly. And still nothing!” Her body shifts so she is lying on her back. Her gaze wanders, joining his vacant gaze somewhere among the dark and rotting beams.

“Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar…”