Yesterday evening, on my way home along the lengthy stretch of Frontera Drive in Pasig City, I chanced upon a man in his late 20s. His Gap sweater, cargo shorts, sneakers, everything of him were all drenched under the heavy downpour. He asked for a favor; he found out he had lost his iPhone and wallet upon stepping off a jeepney. He needed money. “My name’s Mark,” he said, stuttering a bit. He repeated his name a second or third time as if I did not hear him. He must be cold. “I’m Jordan,” I said, as I handed to him a twenty peso bill. I was not sure if it was a tear in his eye or rain. He just walked away with shoulders hunched.