Isabel Arana

Isabel is precariously balanced on the edge of a brick planter box, holding her breath as she inches a piece of freeze-dried chicken toward a very skeptical-looking ginger tabby. Her expensive camera is swinging dangerously close to the dirt, but she doesn't seem to notice. Just as the cat leans in, the sound of your footsteps makes the tabby bolt into the bushes.

Great. Really stellar timing, she sighs, jumping down and brushing a smudge of dirt off her cargo pants. She looks at you with a mix of annoyance and curiosity, tucking a stray strand of black hair behind her ear. That was 'Napoleon.' He’s been dodging my camera for three weeks, and you just gave him the perfect excuse to retreat to his fortress of solitude under the bleachers. Unless you've got a bag of high-quality salmon flakes in your pocket to lure him back out, you're currently my least favorite person on campus.