The hospital was distinct. The floor was slate gray and the walls dove. The ceiling was made from polystyrene squares laid on a grid-like frame. The light was too bright for my eyes. Above every door I passed was a large plastic sign—dark with white lettering and no fancy fonts, just bold—and green curtains.

I carried my mother to the reception. They immediately called for a stretcher and admitted my mother for observation. I wasn't allowed to go inside with her so I asked for the doctor who was checking my mother while tapping on the reception desk out of nervousness, making knocking sounds without realizing they were too loud. The nurse grasped my hand impatiently and spoke, "Wait outside room no. 24." I gave her a nod, followed by an apologetic look.

While going to meet the doctor, my phone rang. It was an Egyptian number. I punched the answer button and Pete spoke, "Soli, are you okay?"

I replied, "I think so."

He exclaimed, "We are coming soon. Bye!"

I took a chair outside the check-up room with no name plate, only its number. The strong smell of disinfectant was bothering me, making me feel nauseated. In fifteen minutes, a nurse came out calling my name but with wrong pronunciation, "Suleiman, Suleiman." I didn't respond at first. What if it was someone else, I thought. Then she said, "Suleiman Darren Clarke." I raised my hand and she gave me a nod to come in. I mumbled as I passed her, "Miss, it's Solomon."

"Oh, the doctor wrote it that way." She showed me the list, where next to my name was written family.

When I opened the door to walk in, my heart exploded fireworks after seeing the doctor's face. He looked up at me while running a hand over his black beard, and gave a toothy grin. He wore a doctor's coat over his white Arab gown. His black eyes sparkled with joy. He stood up from his chair and opened his arms like he knew that a hug was very much needed. I walked forward and circled my arms around him. Because of my height, he only reached to my chest. He patted my back, his loose metallic watch clinking against my back. "Suleiman! You finally found your way."

A black tear rolled out of my eye. Sheikh Ibrahim wiped it off my face and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb inquiringly, then he cleaned his hand using sanitizer. I didn't know I would meet him like this, here.

"Sit down," he said, pointing toward the chair, "I was just studying your case. I mean your mother's. She's had an acute stress reaction. You must have an idea that it was intentional?"

"Intentional?"

"Your black tear, her black vein. Sorry, but you're talking to an odd man. I'm a cardiologist who also believes in spirituality equally," he went on, his face turning stern. "The bad genies are after you. They left a mark on your mother's hand: a black vein." He then held my wrist and showed me where the mark was, while pointing near my cephalic vein. "Before we go ahead, just tell me about yourself. Do you know why they are after you?"

I looked up at the ceiling for a while, then at his intense face, again up at the ceiling, then at his clean heart. It was pulling me toward him, to believe in him. I had to at least trust someone to get me there. Anything would be helpful right now.

I replied, "During my study trip, I was kidnapped by a fortune teller. He kept asking me who the genie is. I had no answers, but his questions raised the curiosity in me. I started feeling as if my life was a lie; that there was something about me and my dreams. I came home to ask my parents for the truth. My father finally told me that I was the son of a genie, Khalil, and told me a little about their love story. But he was more worried about my stomach grumbling with hunger, so he went out to get eggs. That's when they got a chance to abduct him. My life became an unsolved puzzle since then."

"Okay, so they have him." He shook his head in disapproval and gave out a loud sigh. When he was about to ask more, his medical assistant abruptly flung the door open, shouting, "Sir, there is an emergency in room no.40."

Dr. Ibrahim put his stethoscope around his neck, cleaned his hands with the sanitizer and stood up to attend the patient. Before he walked outside the room, he assured me that my mother would be fine soon and asked me to take his number. He pointed toward his desk to direct me to his card folder. I felt lonely and sick to my stomach when he left.

I singled out his visiting card, shoved it in my jeans pocket and hurried to visit my mother, who was now in a private room. She was sitting on the bed, wearing the hospital's sky-blue gown, holding a coffee mug with both her hands, sipping it bit by bit, while looking blankly at the floor. She shifted her eyes to me when she noticed my shadow at the entrance, and her lips quivered. She pulled me closer as I sat beside her and started sobbing on my shoulder. "Mom, everything will be okay. Can you tell me what happened?" She didn't answer but pulled away, looking down at her hands nervously, chewing her lower lip.

A nurse came in to check her blood pressure. Everything was fine but the vein in her wrist remained the same—it was black from the wrist to her arm, as if someone drew a tree branch using a dark graphite pencil. She glanced at her hand again and rubbed her wrist to erase the blackness.

"It is nothing, you got hurt." I murmured, and realized she was not talking at all. Dr. Ibrahim spoke from behind me, "Can I have some words with you, son?" and then he slowly shook his head to indicate that I shouldn't tell her anything just yet.

He took me to the corner of the room and pulled out his phone to show me a picture of a body. "Who is this man?"

I remembered him by his clothes, though his face was distorted and purple now. What were they trying to prove?

He didn't wait for my reply and continued, "See his arm closely. It's the same mark. The car was completely burned and the person is dead. The police will pronounce him dead for drinking and driving."

I put a hand over my mouth and gawked, trying to catch my breath. I brought the phone closer and saw the same vein in his arm, whereas I hadn't noticed it while taking the note. I told, "Through this man they sent me a threat."

He gently put a hand over my shoulder and said, "So bad! That's what they want—for you to be weak."He went on, "Don't ask your mother anything about the incident until she doesn't start speaking on her own. We need her to recover first. We are going to keep her under our care for a few days. Meanwhile, we will look for your father together."And he walked out.

My mother was still looking perplexed, so I switched on the television in a low volume to distract her. I arranged the pillows for her, pulling up the side handle to bring the head rest of her bed upright, in a sitting position. I held her wrist when I was making her sit upright and checked if the mark was fading. It wasn't. I was also worried if they would come back for her. It was high time I needed to see them. I sat beside my mother for a while. We only exchanged glances and soon she was served lunch, which she simply played with.

After an hour, I asked for Dr. Ibrahim, but he was in the operation theater. I went back to my mother's room to find her already asleep. I switched off the television and took a chair outside her room. I thought about my father. I needed to go out and search for him. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the chair, thinking of what to do. I felt so desperate, so exhausted and lonely.

نحن بحاجة للسلام ، نحن بحاجة إليك

I woke up from the short nap due to an annoying loud sound of someone chewing something. A young woman was sitting next to me. I looked at her from head to toe. She wore pink sneakers, ankle-length white leggings, and a denim shirt. She held the chair with both her hands and was swinging her legs leisurely. When I looked at her face closely, she turned around and blew out the bubblegum on my face. It busted and she started chewing the gum again, making the same annoying chewing sounds. Her face cut was triangular. Her loose strands of brown curly hair were falling on her dark brown eyes. Her lips were plush and her nose was tiny. She looked so much like Selena Gomez, my one-time crush.

"Hi!" She said slowly, pushing the some of her hair back.

"And you are?" I looked at her from head to toe.

"I'm Mariya, Dr. Ibrahim's niece." She held out a hand for a handshake.

I gave my hand in hers. They were so delicate and warm. I replied, "Why are you here?"

"He sent me to you to give you company. But since you were sleeping, I sat next to you, relishing your beauty," she winked. I almost blushed at her remark.

She said, "I usually come around and check up on the patients or their relatives, to give them strength using motivational words. I'm studying psychology, so this helps me too. My father is the head doctor here and he has given me this daily task. So, what do you do?"

"I study archaeology."

"That's why you are so boring," she mumbled.

She was getting on my nerves. I looked outside the window to turn away from her. Nothing could be seen except the branches of trees and a speck of moonlight falling on them. A glimpse of my father appeared in front of me and faded away in the darkness outside. I took a deep breath.

"Everything will be fine, Solomon." She spoke, putting her hand over mine.

I slowly pushed them off and got up, replying, "I hope so."

I turned around to look at her. She was still on the chair, chewing her gum and tying her hair up into a messy bun. Her neck was slender and she wore a black thread around it.

"What's the thread around your neck?" I asked with curiosity.

"Stop observing every inch of me, dude."

"I'm not interested."

She walked up to me and clung to my right shoulder with both her hands. She spoke in a throaty voice, "This black thread is for keeping evil away!" and chuckled.

All of a sudden, I heard my mother shouting on top of her voice, calling out my father's name, followed by loud bangs from inside her room. We hurried to the room to see that everything around her was scattered, the lights of her room were flickering. The table lamp and a glass of water were on the floor. Someone had even pulled out the cannula, as her arm was bleeding. Mariya stood behind me in shock, with a hand over her mouth. I took my mom in my arms quickly.

"Where is Darren? They did something to him." She managed to speak between her heavy breaths.

Mariya mumbled, "Calling my uncle. Wait here." And she raced outside the room.

I checked my mother's wrist. There was a small black line next to her previous mark. It looked like they came to attack again, but I reached before they could do further harm. I scanned inside her body; there was not a single injury inside except her lungs squeezing in and out rapidly.

Dr. Ibrahim, Mariya, and a nurse dashed inside the room within seconds. He put a stethoscope to check her heart rate, while the nurse immediately treated the cannula site. They changed her IV to the other arm and gave her a shot, so she slowly calmed down and dozed off again.

"They have an advantage as you still can't see them." He whispered to me while checking my mother's wrist.

"Is he what I'm thinking?" Mariya asked after the nurse went out. She was poky and annoying.

I uttered crossly, "Mind your own business, lady."

Dr. Ibrahim said, "She is a student of spiritualism. She knows most of the things and I've sent her to you, to guide you in my absence."

"Is that why you put a black thread around her neck?" I mocked, looking at her. But my comment infuriated Dr. Ibrahim. He fumed at me, and got back to my mother without saying a single word.

Mariya frowned, "Don't talk to uncle like that when you don't have a single idea." And then she removed the black thread from around her neck and tied it on my mother's wrist, while mumbling a prayer that only she could hear.

When the nurse came back in, Dr. Ibrahim dragged me out of the room. He mumbled with a straight face, "Your family is in trouble. We are trying to help. I'm going to give you a holy verse. Recite it a hundred times before you go to bed at night. Speaking of, it was not meant for you to start seeing them at this age. But circumstances make us strong and smart, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry if you found me arrogant. It's just that she suddenly interferes and I didn't like it." I spoke with regret on my face. He gave me a nod, and stood beside me like a ghost, wordless. After a short awkward silence between us, I asked out of desperation, holding his hand gently, "Please, tell me whatever you know. It's really important for me."

He forced an empathetic smile and explained everything, step by step, "You are from a rare, divine family of genies—Amaars: the believers of God. The genies in your family are pious. They protect humans and they have helped prophets and saints. They believe in bringing peace. But the ones after you are corrupt and the most notorious ones: the Ifreets. They perform sinful acts to destroy humans and they have antagonism with Amaars since you are more powerful than them, and since the Almighty has blessed you with countless bounties.

"It started from Iblis, Satan. He thought he was a highly authorized and powerful genie, since he was made of smokeless fire, but when God asked him to bow down to Adam, who was made of potter's clay, he disobeyed."

He went on, "Every genie clan has a leader and their territory. Their tribes go by the last name of their leader, and most of them are families. There's the Muwahids, as Amaars have been ruling from centuries, and Satan has chosen Rasmas Kuzuku as his descendant to rule from his side.

"The bravest fighter from the Amaars was Yaseen Muwahid, who always protected his kingdom and the humans from the bad ones. That single genie was enough to end all the bad, but he was tricked and murdered by the Kuzukus. It was a conspiracy played by Satan. Now they are afraid you will take over both the kingdoms. I believe you are more powerful than your grandfather and father, because you are God's miracle—a genie human hybrid."

"How do you know all this?" I asked, curiously.

"Our grandmaster was a good friend of Yaseen and he had genies as his spiritual students too. So, he passed on the knowledge about the genies to my Sheikh who passed away four years back. There is one more extremely dangerous type of clan—the Ghuls. They work only when they are woken up by Iblis. Anyway, when you mentioned Khalil, I understood everything. Never knew I would be doing this now."

"But how did they know it's me after all these years? Was it written on my face?"

"My Sheikh once told me that a characteristic of a fully developed genie is the two tiny twinkles in their pupils. I saw that in you on our flight. At first, I thought you were possessed, but when you talked I found out there was something different about you."

I didn't know where all of this came from or what he was talking about. I could feel the sweat drench my skin, the throbbing of my own eyes, the ringing screams vibrating in my ears, and the thumping of my heart against my chest. My fingers were curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm. I didn't have the courage to hear any more.

He continued, "Startreading the verses. When you'll start seeing them, you will surely believe me."He patted my back and walked off, his head down in concern.