Togar.

The first thing Togar remembers isn't a face: it's the forest seen from above, moving. His mother carried him clinging to her hair, crossing the canopy branch by branch, and he watched the green slide past below. Even now, up high feels to him like the good place, and the ground a little less his own.

An orangutan is made for those heights. Its arms are enormously long and its feet grip like hands, so he hangs, swings and holds on to any branch with an ease that seems perfectly ordinary to Togar. His whole life fits up there, in the canopy: last night's tree, tomorrow's, the branch he watches from. At six he still doesn't cross the canopy alone; when his mother moves, he grabs her hair and goes with her, carried high through the forest.

Up in the canopy it's comfortable: the food hangs close by almost all year and the sun comes in warm through the leaves. As the evening falls, an orangutan builds itself a new bed: it bends branches until it's put together a nest to spend the night in, and if it smells rain it adds a roof of leaves over the top. Every night a different bed, made in a while, way up high.

Togar still sleeps with his mother, tucked into her nest, right up close. He's a small child: the height, the warm canopy and his mother's body are his whole home. By day he follows her wherever she goes; by night he curls up against her. This sweatshirt carries that orangutan child at the closest, highest stage of his life, when going to sleep still means climbing into his mother's nest, up high, where he lives.