Are you a name? Tell me, son, there’s many people with the same name as you. Names aren’t unique. Numbers are. And everyone can read them. But you don’t tell someone you’re M-489-904-8490. We had a hard enough time remembering phone numbers. You don’t remember phones, do you? Well, it’s why 9-1-1 is three digits, two repeating, but even then we don’t always remember to use it. Everyone will tell you, you’re the Personal Identification Chip they put in your wrist. Injected into your baby fat before they handed you to your mother. They’re working on a pre-birth implant to combat the unrecorded home births. It’s no longer a matter of stamping and signing. Papers get lost, burned, drowned. People don’t often lose their hands. There was a trend over fitness straps. Black plastic you could wear at work, in the shower, in bed. But it chafed the skin, collected moisture. Better to have integration than attachments. It’s no longer a matter of mere numbers. Numbers can be copied, deleted. That used to be a problem with the early models. You could cut out chips and pick who you wanted to be. Now they integrate it with your DNA and blood type. Try to cut it out and pop. Only a matter of health and safety. That’s what some people wanted. A doctor on their watch. I want you to remember this, son. They can change the acronyms, but the backbone is the same. They have 112 different names for sugar. No matter what you call it, it’s C12H22O11. I heard they’re doing a recall on your model PIC. I imagine it’s more than that. A bootcamp, training, indoctrination. I won’t make the same mistake my father did. You’re flesh and blood, son, no matter what they say.