Deek builds his new financial team, explores a riverfront property, and shares a moment of brotherhood with Imam Saleh. But is it enough?

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26

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Abu Huraira reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The world is a prison for the believer and a paradise for the unbeliever.”
– Sahih Muslim 2956

Everything You Love Will Be There

Lying in bed that night, trying to calm himself enough to sleep as a thousand thoughts whirled through his mind, Deek could still see it as if it were yesterday. The prayer rugs rolled out across the living room floor, the faint scent of oud lingering from his father’s sabha beads. Deek – eight or nine years old at the time – sat cross-legged beside little Lubna, the cool tile pressing through his thin cotton pants. Mama leaned against the sofa and smiled, while their father sat with his back straight, palms on his knees, eyes bright with knowledge and love.

“Children,” his father said, “in Jannah, there is no pain, no sadness, no hunger. There is no death. Everything you love will be there, but better.”

The words no pain, no sadness had washed over him like a lullaby, but the rest of it—everything you love will be there—that was what set his imagination alight.

In his mind, Jannah was him and Marco with every game they ever wanted to play. A perfect baseball diamond that stretched to the horizon, gloves that never tore, bats that never cracked. Two gleaming BMX bikes waiting by the fence line. Skateboards with the latest urethane wheels and endless smooth pavement to ride. No homework, no chores, no one calling them in before sunset. Just open sky, the smell of grass, and all the time in the world.

He could still hear his father’s voice that evening, low and certain: “And the greatest joy is that Allah will be pleased with you. You will never fear again.”

Years later, when Deek had his own family, Jannah meant something else. It was a place where Rania would be free of pain. Where he and Lubna could talk without pride rising like a wall between them. A place where Iraqis of all faiths and colors lived together in peace, where the Palestinians were victorious and free, and where no child ever cried from hunger.

And Marco—always Marco—would finally find himself there. He would know what he was meant to do, and he would live without the gnawing anxiety that had shadowed him all his life. There would be music and laughter, not in smoky bars but in the gardens of Paradise, where the rivers flowed not with liquor but with mercy.

Now, older and slower, Deek no longer pictured Jannah as a guarantee. He knew better than to assume his own worthiness, or to imagine who might be kept out. Faith had softened into humility. But maybe—just maybe—he and Marco would enter through the same gate, side by side, into that lush, forgiving world. A world free of poverty and loss.
A world where the joy of youth never ended.

The Offer

The next morning he logged onto the dashboard Zakariyya Abdul Ghani had given him, and was stunned to see that the job was done. All the outstanding medical bills had been paid. Deek hadn’t expected that. He’d imagined a few of the bills would be caught in bureaucratic limbo — an unreturned call, a missing invoice — but when he logged in to check the account, every item was reconciled, paid, and neatly logged in an online ledger.

He called Zakariyya to confirm, and the young man’s soft voice came through, calm and assured. “Yes, sir. I pulled a few all-nighters. I sensed your urgency in wanting it done quickly.”

That was enough for Deek. He drove straight to the office under the flight path. The same faint scent of cardamom greeted him when he walked in, the same rattle of glass from the window as a plane passed overhead.

Zakariyya stood from behind the desk, surprised. “Mr. Saghir. I didn’t expect you—”

Deek waved him down. “Relax. I’m not here to check your math.” He pulled a chair closer, sat, and leaned forward. “I’m here because I need someone like you. I’m setting up a family financial office. You’ve shown me you can handle pressure, and you don’t miss details. I want you to run it.”

The young man blinked. “Me? I’ve never done anything like that. I’m barely out of college.”

“You’re young, but that’s fine.”

He remembered a time years ago, when they’d done a remodel on the house and Deek had hired a twenty-three-year-old Iraqi immigrant named Fadil to run the job. The boy could barely speak English. Rania had thought Deek was crazy. But Fadil had a degree in civil engineering, experience as a tradesman, and had to start somewhere. He’d done the job well, and within a few years was running his own small construction firm. Fadil still called every Eid to say thank you.

Deek smiled faintly at the memory and added, “Sometimes taking a chance on a young person pays off.”

Zakariyya adjusted his glasses, clearly thrown off balance. “How much money do you need to manage?”

When Deek shared the figure, Zakariyya sat up very straight and whistled, then added, “MashaAllah, I mean. But sir, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Deek replied. “How much are you making now?”

The young man hesitated. “Fifty thousand per year.”

“That’s respectable. But I’ll triple it. One hundred and fifty, plus benefits, plus performance bonuses. You will search out and recruit the team.”

Zakariyya stared at him, speechless. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he repeated softly.

“Say bismillah,” Deek said. “And get started. Find an office space — one without planes overhead, please. Then let’s start with an accountant, an investment analyst, and an office manager. A legal advisor, but not full-time. Also, a Shariah compliance officer, but again, a consultant, not full-time. That last could be a remote position if we don’t have anyone local. I might have a few people in mind for other positions. I’ll keep you posted.”

A plane roared overhead, and the windows rattled again. But this time, Deek didn’t even flinch.

As he stepped out into the parking lot, the late afternoon light turned the pavement gold. He felt steady, almost serene. For once, he wasn’t patching holes or running from fires; he was building something that might last. Not just wealth, but order. Not chaos, but continuity. The only other thing he needed was his family. He had to find a way to cross this barrier, which was feeling more insurmountable every day.

The River House

Standing outside Zakariyya’s office, Deek’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message from Marcela Gómez.

I have a property for you. When are you available?

He typed a single word: Now.

A moment later, her reply appeared.

Meet me in half an hour. I’ll send the address.

The address dropped into his messages: a location he didn’t recognize, somewhere on the edge of the city, close to the river.

The road wound through farmland and low bluffs before ending at a half-finished driveway that curved uphill toward a skeleton of steel and concrete. The structure sprawled across the ridge — modernist lines, concrete, and pillars — but most of it was bare framing beneath a vast unfinished roof. Tall grass and weeds grew where floors should have been. A blue porta-potty leaned on its side, sun-bleached and cracked.

Marcela was already there, her SUV parked near a temporary construction trailer. She waved as he pulled up.

“Mister Saghir,” she called, “what do you think?”

He climbed out and took it in. The roofline was elegant, almost soaring, but the space beneath it looked more like a ruin than a home. “What am I supposed to do with this? Sleep under the stars?”

She laughed softly. “It’s true that it’s only ten percent finished. The builder ran out of money and walked away. But look at what you get — fifty acres of riverfront land.”

She pointed east. Through the tall grass, Deek could see the San Joaquin River glinting like hammered silver. Cottonwoods and valley oaks lined the banks, their leaves flickering in the breeze. Sprays of orange and red poppies illustrated the hillsides, making the scene look like a painting. The air was crisp and clean, though as he inhaled deeply, he caught the faintest whiff of skunk, which made his nose wrinkle.

“Down there,” she said, “are old trails that lead straight to the water. You could hike, fish, build anything you want. To find riverfront land in Fresno is almost impossible. This is a miracle waiting for money.”

Deek raised an eyebrow. “A miracle that needs plumbing and walls.”

Marcela gestured toward a small stucco cottage tucked near the tree line. “There’s a caretaker’s house. One bedroom, kitchen, bath. All finished. You could live there while the main house is built.”

He stood in silence for a long moment, surveying the land. The wind carried the scent of dry grass and river water. Somewhere below, a hawk cried.

Marcela folded her arms. “Don’t look at what it is,” she said. “Look at what it could be.”

Just Like That

“Alright.” Deek turned to her. “How much?”

“Six million dollars. I bargained them down from seven, and it wasn’t easy. You said not to bother negotiating, but I am Colombian; it’s in my blood. I would have felt like an idiot taking their asking price. I could maybe – maybe – get them down to five five, but it wouldn’t be easy.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

Marcela’s face went hard. “It’s a good price for this property. The question is, are you serious or not serious?”

Deek raised one arm in the air, fist pointing to the sky. “Six million it is. I’ll take it.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Just like that? You’re not kidding?”

“Just like that.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “You don’t hesitate, do you?”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

“The sale still has to go through escrow,” she said, handing him a small key ring. “But that’s a formality. These are for the caretaker’s house. You can check the place up -”

“Check it out.”

“That’s what I said. Check it out, hang out, even sleep there if you like. Might be best not to move your stuff in until escrow goes through, though.”

He took the keys. The metal was warm from her hand.

He hesitated, then added, “Marcela, I want to talk to you about something. I’m building a family financial office — investments, property, all of it. I want you to run real estate acquisitions. Homes, apartment complexes, whatever makes sense.”

She considered. “Actually, Mister Saghir, commercial real estate is where the profit is right now. Fresno is full of empty buildings — offices, strip malls. Oversupply means we can buy low. If you want income, that’s where it is.”

Deek smiled. “Then you’re the one I need. Come on board.”

Marcela tilted her head, half-amused, half-intrigued. “You don’t waste time.”

Deek held his palms up to say, “What’s the word?”

Imitating Deek’s decisive gesture, Marcela Gómez shot an arm into the air and declared, “I will think about it!”

Deek laughed. “Fair enough.”

The Caretaker’s House

After she drove away, Deek wandered down the slope, the tall grass brushing against his jeans. He reached the edge of the ridge where the land fell away to the river. The sun was high now, painting the world in gold and shadow. It reminded him of his childhood vision of Jannah: grass, a river, and time to play. Though he and Marco were not children anymore, they hadn’t played any sports together in a long time.

Below him, the water moved slow and heavy, glittering with light. Cottonwoods swayed, and red-winged blackbirds flashed through the reeds. A blue heron stood motionless in the shallows. The air was warm and thick with the smell of river mud and wild fennel.

Deek sat on the grass, watching the heron lift off in a single, slow beat of its wings. He took out his phone, snapped a photo of the river stretching wide and calm, and sent it to Rania.

He waited. The screen stayed dark. No reply.

He pocketed the phone and kept watching the water. The wind came down from the hills, rippling the grass around him like the surface of the river itself.

The caretaker’s house was smaller than he expected — smaller, in fact, than his hotel room. One narrow bedroom, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with a stand-up shower. No bathtub. The place smelled faintly of pine cleaner. Someone had left a few personal items behind: a chipped coffee mug, a paperback novel with a cracked spine, and a faded baseball cap hanging on a nail by the door.

The walls were rough plaster, the furniture plain but solid — a table, two chairs, a firm sofa. It was clean, though. That counted for something. He could live here. He’d lived in worse.

He opened the windows. Warm air drifted in, thick with the scent of wild grass. There was no AC unit, only a ceiling fan that ticked as it spun.

He wandered through the back door and discovered a small patio he hadn’t noticed before — a slab of concrete shaded by a vine-covered trellis, with a built-in barbecue facing the river. From here, he could see the water shimmering between the trees, slow and drowsy under the midday sun.

He pulled out his phone again. Still no reply from Rania.

He stood there for a while, listening to the wind and the distant call of a jay, then slipped the phone back into his pocket.

The Hoops at Masjid Madinah

He couldn’t bring himself to go back to the hotel. Instead, he drove to Masjid Madinah.

The air inside the masjid was cool and smelled faintly of carpet and rose water. After the prayer, Imam Saleh clasped Deek’s shoulder and said, “You look tired, brother. Come outside for a bit.”

They stepped into the parking lot, where a cheap basketball hoop and backboard were bolted to a rusted light pole. The asphalt was cracked, the rim slightly bent.

“Come on,” the Imam said, tossing Deek a ball. “Let’s play a few rounds. It’ll clear your head.”

Deek chuckled. “I’m not very good.”

“Neither am I,” the Imam said, already dribbling. “Bismillah.”

Twenty minutes later, Deek was bent over, panting, sweat running down his temples, while the Imam sank another shot with effortless grace.

“I thought you said you weren’t good,” Deek said, hands on his knees.

“I said neither of us was good. But you’re worse.”

They laughed. The sound echoed across the empty lot.

Still catching his breath, Deek nodded toward the hoop. “You ever think about putting in a proper court?”

The Imam shrugged. “There are a lot of things we’d like to do. But this isn’t Masjid Umar. This community isn’t wealthy.”

Deek wiped sweat from his forehead. “How much would it cost? Not just for a basketball court but everything on your wish list — masjid expansion, classrooms, basketball court, whatever you need.”

The Imam stopped bouncing the ball and tucked it into his side. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the traffic on the main road nearby.

“Brother Deek,” he said finally, “you’re not the community piggy bank. I don’t want you to start seeing me that way — or for me to see you that way. I value you as a friend, and as a member of the community. That’s all.”

The words struck Deek harder than the Imam’s best shot. He nodded slowly, touched in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Understood,” he said. For the first time in a long while, he felt something like belonging. It occurred to him that this feeling of brotherhood and companionship was a tiny glimpse of Jannah, where such feelings would be universal, and loneliness would be a thing of the past.

“You and your family,” the Imam added. “You’re all welcome here.”

At that, Deek’s momentary feeling of contentment collapsed in on itself. Did the Imam know of his family situation? Was he giving him a message?

Deek suddenly felt very tired. He shook the Imam’s hand and trudged to his car. Loneliness might not exist in Jannah. But Deek lived on earth.

***

Come back next week for Part 28 inshaAllah

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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