César.

In his story, César rides his motorbike out on Sundays to a forest on the edge of the city, where the asphalt ends and the giant trees begin. One Sunday he found fresh tracks in the mud: the pad clearly marked, no trace of claws. A wild black leopard, one of his own kind, had passed through hours earlier. He crouched down and studied them for ten minutes, still. He didn't take out his phone. He goes back week after week and has never seen it; every time, tracks in a different spot. The other leopard evades him with the same elegance he uses to evade people.

That's what a backpack is for: carrying what matters and getting on with it, hands free. It works as a school backpack, for travel, or for work; you sling it on, load it up for the day, and go. If you're going to carry it for eight hours straight, it might as well have a cat with character on the front, one who doesn't rattle over anything. It suits César: recognizing someone else by their tracks, without ever meeting them, is a fine way to move through the world. Who César really is lives in his biography; here he arrives light, in backpack form.