Rashed returned to his village, "Wadi Al-Sukun," after thirty years of driving his massive truck along the winding roads of the country, transporting goods from the far north to the deep south. His retirement from the major transport company wasn’t by choice—it was forced by a knee worn down by years of rough roads. He found his long-dreamed-of village withering away. Drought had struck harshly; crops withered, and "bread" became a word whispered hungrily on starving lips. Even the simple plants in his clay house’s garden vanished, replaced by cracked earth reeking of despair. Hunger was a real ghost—not just a feeling, but sunken eyes in a child’s face, the hollow belly of an old man beneath a dead fig tree. Months passed, emptiness devouring Rashed just as hunger devoured the village. Then came a desperate call from an old friend in a distant city: *"Rashed, I have an emergency shipment… medicines and baby food for ‘Al-Wadi Al-Akhdar’ Hospital. The