The backpack is a real canvas rucksack now, a size you could carry, lying on your back whether you stand, crouch, lie down with C or swim. The gray tube round the neck is a loose cotton neckerchief, the eyes show their pupils, and the man’s hair is brown, not orange.
The shirt fits: slimmer sleeves rolled below the elbow, a small soft collar, tucked in with a little slack over the belt. The trousers bunch at the knees and on the boots instead of standing like tubes, and the pack straps sit on top of the shirt. The white triangle under his collar is gone, because that skin is sun-browned now like his neck, and his head is its real size.
Your hands no longer go into the rope, pouch or knife sheath on your belt when you stand or walk, in either body, and the arms sit a touch wider to clear them. The inside of the mouth is a muted pink with ivory teeth instead of hot red and blue-gray, and faces against the sun no longer glow orange-red round the edges.
