The quiet was a fragile, hard-won thing, thin as glass. Outside the walls, the camp slept, its pains and fevers momentarily held off by exhaustion. Inside the clinic, a single candle flickered, casting dancing shadows on the plywood walls. In this small oasis of silence, Dawud Jamil sat, his gaze resting on his hands.
They rested on his knees, palms up. They trembled with a fine, consistent tremor—not from fear or cold, but from a deep, systemic fatigue that had taken hold in his marrow. He turned them over, studying them as if they belonged to another.
These were the hands that had fumbled a simple suturing technique under Dr. Fahmy's disdainful gaze. He could still seethe with the humiliation of it, the cool, air-conditioned air of the Cairo University exam hall a dungeon. The other st
