The ambulance lurched to a halt outside the hospital's emergency entrance. The driver killed the engine, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the wailing sirens and chanting crowds that had filled his ears just moments ago. 

Hasan glanced at the young man, slumped against the stretcher, his face pale and streaked with blood.  "We're here," Hasan said, his voice rough.  "Just hold on."

He jumped out and wrenched open the back doors.  What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

  The emergency room was overflowing.  Stretchers lined the hallways, every surface occupied by injured protestors.  Some were conscious, moaning in pain, others lay still, covered with hastily applied bandages.  Doctors and nurses, their faces etched with exhaustion and grim determination, moved through the chaos, triaging patients and barking orders. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, blood, and fear.

Hasan struggled to navigate the stretcher through the throng.  A nurse, her scrubs stained crimson, rushed towards him.  "What happened?" she shouted over the din.
"Protest," Hasan yelled back, his voice barely audible. "He was hit by… something. I don't know."

The nurse quickly assessed the injured man. "It's a deep wound.  We need to get him inside, now!"  She gestured to two orderlies who were struggling to maneuver a gurney through the crowded hallway.  "Help me get him on this."

Together, they transferred the young man onto the gurney.  As they wheeled him through the chaotic scene, Hasan felt a wave of nausea wash over him.  The sheer scale of the injuries, the desperation in the eyes of the injured and the medical staff, was overwhelming. 

He saw a young woman with a bandaged arm, her face contorted in pain, pleading with a doctor.  He saw an older man, his eyes closed, being rushed towards the operating room.  Everywhere he looked, there was suffering.

Hasan watched as the gurney disappeared behind the swinging doors of the trauma room.  He stood there for a moment, stunned, the chaos swirling around him.  He had brought this young man here, hoping they would be able to help, but the hospital itself seemed overwhelmed, drowning in the tide of injured protestors.  He didn't know if the young man would survive.

_____________

After a few weeks the government managed to maintain order and no more demonstrations took place, many activists accounts were closed, thousands of people were arrested and the opposition parties were disbanded and silenced.

"...and in local news, The local football team Managed to qualify for the semi final, which will take place on the 4th of November.  In other news, the city council is debating..."

Maram snapped off the television. The drone of the news reporter’s voice, detailing the minutiae of everyday life, felt jarringly out of sync with the turmoil churning inside her.  "Honestly," she muttered, tossing the remote onto the couch, "who cares about football right now?"

Her brother, Omar, looked up from his phone, a frown creasing his brow. "What's wrong?"

Maram sighed, sinking into the armchair.
"It's Fadia.  Her sister and father were arrested."

Omar:
"What? When?"

Maram:
"A few days ago, during the protest.  Fadia's a mess. She's been crying day and night.  She doesn't know anything about them.  Nothing." 

Omar:
.“But… what were they arrested for? Just for protesting?”

Maram
"Apparently.  And… and I heard things, Terrible things. About how the government treats people they arrest at these demonstrations." 

She shivered, the images conjured by the hushed whispers she’d overheard making her stomach churn. 

"They say… they say it's brutal, how the government breaks them and torture them."

She wrapped her arms around herself, her voice barely a whisper.

Maram:
"Fadia has tried everything. She's gone to the police stations, the detention centers… no one will tell her anything. Not even their lawyer can find out where they are. It's like they've just vanished."

  Her eyes welled up with tears. "She's terrified. Absolutely terrified. And I don't know what to do to help her."

Omar:
"Calm down, Maram. I'll try to help. I'll talk to Uncle. He's got many connections; maybe he knows someone who can help."

Maram:
"Do you think he would?"
Omar: "I don't know, but we have to try."

Omar pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over Tariq’s name. He hesitated, then pressed the call button.  He paced the room as the phone rang, a knot tightening in his stomach.

"Uncle Tariq?" Omar said, his voice a little strained. "It's Omar."

Tariq
"Omar, what is it? is this about work?"

"No, I… I need to ask you something, Uncle. It's about Maram's friend Fadia, her father and sister. They were arrested a few days ago, during the protests, and…"

"And?" Tariq prompted.

"And we were wondering if… if you could maybe help us find out what happened to them.  We've tried everything, but no one will tell us anything."

There was a brief pause.  Then, Tariq’s tone shifted, becoming more cautious.

  Tariq:
"Omar, I understand your concern, but… these political cases, they're complicated. My connections, they wouldn't care about such… nobodies."

"Uncle, please," Omar pleaded, his voice rising in desperation. 

Omar:
"They're not nobodies! They're Fadia's family!  She's devastated. We're all devastated.  We don't even know if they're alive!"

Tariq: "Omar, even if I did ask my connections for help, it's pointless.  These… these disappearances, they're different.  No one can touch them.  It's too risky."

Omar’s heart sank. He knew what his uncle meant, but he had to try.

Omar:
"Uncle, please, for me, for Maram… please, just try.  Anything.  We're desperate."

Tariq sighed.
"Alright, Omar, alright. I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.  But I’m not promising anything.  Absolutely nothing.  This… this is a long shot.  And you have to understand, I might not be able to do anything at all."

Omar:
"Thank you uncle."

Tariq:
"I must go now, I already wasted time you know how important weekends are for me."

Omar:
"Yes, I know, I'm sorry I bothered you."

___________________

Maram rose before dawn, the restless night clinging to her as she couldn't sleep at all.  She performed her prayers, a sense of unease still heavy in her heart.

As she left the prayer mat, she noticed a light spilling from Omar’s room.  She found him at his desk, surrounded by papers. 

Maram: "Omar? What are you doing up?"

He looked up, his eyes tired but focused.

Omar:
  "Just going over some statistics, reading employee reports. I couldn't sleep anyway, so I thought I might as well get some work done."

Maram sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.

Maram:
"I couldn't sleep either."

"Nightmare?" Omar asked, his voice gentle.

Maram nodded. "About Mom and Dad.  It was… different this time. I was walking along the beach, and I saw them on a boat, coming towards me. They were waving, smiling. I waved back, so happy to see them. But then… the sea turned red.  They were coughing blood, Omar.  Their boat sank, and they… they just disappeared." 

Her voice trembled.  "I woke up crying and couldn't calm down."

A heavy silence settled over the room.  They both knew the familiar ache that came with thoughts of their parents.

"It's like… like it was yesterday. The way they died… the plane crash… the sea…  The government saying they sent rescue teams, but… nothing. No survivors. Just… gone."

Omar reached out and took her hand, his own grip tight.  "I remember," he said softly.

"I was fourteen," Maram said, her eyes distant.  "And you were just nine, Omar.  So young.  We didn't know what to do. Uncle Tariq suggested we live with him, but… I still had hope. I kept thinking they would come back. That they had to come back.  That's why I insisted we stay here, in our home.  I wanted to wait for them."

Omar: . "You took care of us, Maram .  You took care of me, you kept our home, I'll take it from here, so please let go of the past, and for me, please try to find peace."

Maram: "Believe me, I'm trying, but what happened with Fadia and her family… it just brought back the memories. I can't escape them. You're suffering too; I know you are. You probably couldn't sleep for the same reason. You've always been like this, even as a child. You always tried to be strong and put on a facade to make me feel better, but I know you're hurting too."

Omar: "I'm trying my best to be strong. We can't break down and cry forever. An awful thing happened to our family, but time didn't stop. We cried for days and weeks, then I realized that everyone moved on. The world didn't stop, and soon we had to move on too, because we're still alive. As long as you're alive and breathing, one must always move on."

_____________

The fluorescent lights of the office seemed to buzz with extra intensity, mocking Omar's exhaustion.

He hadn't slept a wink, his mind replaying Maram's nightmare and their shared grief. Now, running on fumes, he was struggling to keep up. His subordinates, noticing his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes, kept offering him concerned glances.

"Omar, maybe you should take a break," his assistant, Sarah, suggested. "You look exhausted."

"No, no, I'm fine," Omar mumbled, rubbing his temples. He knew they were right, but he needed the distraction.

Work, even tedious work, was better than dwelling on the memories that haunted him.
But his efforts were backfiring. He kept making mistakes – sending emails to the wrong recipients, miscalculating figures, and generally fumbling through his tasks. 

"My apologies," he muttered for the third time in as many minutes, after accidentally replying all to an email that was meant for just one person.

  He cringed internally.  He was usually so meticulous, but today, his focus was completely shot.

Finally, overwhelmed and frustrated, he decided he needed a moment.  He grabbed his phone and stepped into the small, quiet break room. 

He needed someone to talk to, someone who understood.  He scrolled through his contacts and found Hasan's name.  Hasan was his oldest friend, the one person who could always make him laugh, even when he felt like the world was crashing down around him.  With a sigh of relief, Omar pressed the call button.  Hasan was the only person he knew who could pull him out of this funk.

Omar:
"Hello"

Hasan:
"What do you want, I'm exhausted!"

Omar was startled. For a moment, he thought he'd dialed the wrong number. He took a deep breath and said, "If you're busy, I'll call you another time."

Hasan: "Oh, Omar, I can't take this anymore! I haven't gotten any sleep in days. My beautiful face is covered in acne! It's disgusting! Can you believe it? I've never had acne, not even one pimple, not even when we were teenagers! How could this happen? I have, like, ten of them now, and they just won't go away! And my gorgeous eyes, my poor, gorgeous eyes, they look so tired and soulless, and the dark circles just make it worse! I'm done. I want to go home. I want my mom!"  Hasan took a breath, then continued, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice. "That's right, I'm a 23-year-old adult guy, and I want to go home and just cry to my mom. She's the only person in the world who feels pity for me, the only person who doesn't yell as soon as they see my face. 'Hasan, where are the gloves?' 'Hasan, hurry up and help this patient!' 'Hasan, where are the needles?'"

Omar was speechless for a moment, then he fell into a hysterical laughing fit. Ironically, he had called Hasan to rant, only to find his sunshine friend in an even worse mood than himself. Yet, even Hasan's ranting was hilarious to him. In a way, it worked; it broke through Omar's own dark mood.
On the other side of the phone, Hasan felt offended. "Omar, are you laughing? Are you seriously laughing at my pain? I can't believe it! Are you happy that I'm suffering? Well, I'm happy for you! At least my pain is pleasing someone. I can't believe how awful you are! Oh, for Allah's sake, stop laughing! This isn't funny, Omar! I'm serious, stop!"