Book 1 in the Sacred Bonds series.
There are two kinds of scars on a man. The ones you can see, etched into skin by the Texas sun, and the ones you can't; the kind carved into a twelve-year-old boy watching his legacy get stolen at the barrel of a s...
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The world had shrunk to the rhythm of a contraction, the slick, warm darkness, and the single, focused purpose of a life struggling to enter this world. My entire arm was buried deep inside the mare, a thoroughbred named Sierra, sweat and amniotic fluid plastering my hijab to my temples. The owner, a man named Higgins, was all frantic energy in my periphery, but his fear was just static. In here, it was just me, this magnificent, straining creature, and the tiny, trapped foal whose heartbeat I could feel fluttering against my fingertips like a captive bird.
Ya Allah, guide my hands. Make me a conduit for Your mercy.
"Breech," I muttered, more to myself than to my assistant, Carla.
The word hung in the predawn air, sharp and clinical. I could feel the wrongness of the limbs, the hopeless geometry. Higgins made a strangled sound, but I didn't have the bandwidth for his panic. My mind was a map of muscle and bone, a puzzle laid out in sinew. I worked by feel, my eyes closed, pushing past the exhaustion that threatened to creep into my muscles. The mare groaned, a deep, resonant sound of pure effort, and I whispered to her in a mix of English and Arabic, trying to reassure the beautiful creature. "Shhh, brave girl. Almost there. Tawakkaltu 'ala Allah (I place my trust in Allah)".
It was a delicate, brutal dance of push and counter-push, of gently coaxing a tiny hoof into the correct path. The financial specter haunting my family: the bank's relentless letters, my father's silent worry, all tried to intrude in a gray fog at the edge of this intense, present moment. I shoved it back, because here, there was no debt, there was only this life, and it was depending on me.
Then, with a final, guided twist and a surge from the mare, it happened. The foal slid into the world in a rush of fluid and promise, a long-limbed, gangly thing, all wet fur and bewildered energy. The silence was broken by its first, shuddering breath. Alhamdulillah (All praise is to Allah).
The sun was bleeding orange and violet across the Texas horizon by the time I was packing my kit. Higgins was weeping, muttering thanks over and over again, offering double my fee. I just nodded, too tired for words, and told him to make sure the foal nursed within the hour.
The drive back to my clinic was a blur of fading adrenaline. The world outside the windshield slowly repopulated with its problems, but for now, the high of a life saved was a potent shield.
My clinic smelled of antiseptic and hay, a scent that was my personal brand of incense. I was at the deep sink, scrubbing the remnants of the night from my hands and arms, the hot water feeling like a blessing on my aching muscles. A profound, gritty satisfaction settled in my bones. This was my qadr (my destiny), written in blood and birth. This, I understood.
Then my phone erupted on the counter, a relentless, vibrating seizure. I saw the name: Omar.
I picked it up, my heart, so steady just moments before, suddenly hammering a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm against my ribs. "Omar? Habibi, what's wrong?"
