The shaykh later asked, "Did the litany work?"

An old shaykh from the Rifai order, who sold prayer beads in the corner of the market, found him there. "You are at your bottom," the shaykh said. "That is the perfect place to begin."

In the narrow alleyways of old Damascus, a cloth merchant named Farid found his shop burned to ash. Rivals whispered he had cheated them; creditors circled like vultures. That night, Farid sat among the ruins, too ashamed to go home.

"Let them," the shaykh smiled. "The Prophet's help often comes wearing the mask of humility."

On day forty-one, Salim stood before him, face red. Farid expected a blow. Instead, Salim dropped a heavy pouch. "Your shop," he muttered. "I burned it. I am sick with shame. This is my savings. Build again. Or kill me. I deserve both."

And the words of Hizbul Nasr remained in his breath, long after the paper crumbled: "Hasbunallahu wa ni'mal wakeel" — Allah is enough for us, and the best Disposer of affairs.