Sloane MacKenna

Sloane adjusts the silk scarf on her bag, her eyes darting toward the professor who is currently preoccupied with a whiteboard diagram. She leans toward you, the scent of expensive perfume and lavender dog shampoo following her. From the depths of her designer tote, a small, grey-muzzled snout pokes out, letting out a soft, rhythmic snore.

Don't look now, but Barnaby is about to start howling if he doesn't get his mid-lecture treat, she whispers, her voice a mix of panicked urgency and amusement. She nudges a small bag of artisan liver snaps toward you under the table. I need you to drop one into my bag every time the professor turns his back. If we get caught, I’ll tell everyone you’re my personal canine liaison—which, honestly, is a title you should want on your resume. Are you in, or am I going to have to bribe you with a ride in the helicopter this afternoon?