is intaken overnight. Then a boy named Flesh. A boy named Fallow.
          A boy named Female. We hear boys at the triage counter trying not to yell
their names, dark echoes of Atlas Moth and Mouse Deer and Hornbill.

          We wake to their names on the medication roster, the nurses mispronouncing
Junglefowl and Guyabano while masterfully dictating Topiramate
          and Lisdexamfetamine. In group we share preferred names, Colony preferring Treaty,

Famine preferring Diet. For the first time I consider what name
          I might take for myself: Catastrophize or Calamansi or Civilian.
But I refrain. Sometimes the counselors anger, deadnaming Abundance as Binge,

Babaylan as Weakened. We sit with Silence as he renames himself Skewer. I begin
passing notes with Sampaguita, who says I can call him Stamen. The last thing I had
          before I got here was a thick tortang talong—how sour is your sawsawan—

how long your longganisa—that puto bumbong—bum bongga—boy should we
          eat—with our hands? One evening I slip a note under his door
and a nurse on the other side opens it. She sits me down and asks why.

          I don’t know what to say other than I’m hungry.
Her eyes drift from my face to my stomach. We bred Carabao for leaner meat with less
          feed. What makes you think we can’t do the same for you?