I think that one of the people who caused me the most misery for the longest was someone that I'll call "Luna". So, most people have probably met that person that acts all suicidal and then uses that against you. For example, you're talking to someone like that and you're having some sort of argument and the moment they realize they aren't winning they send you pictures of their bloodied wrists and say "This is your fault". Well, that person was my friend for a long time. Every time I would try to leave her to go to sleep she would threaten to do "something bad" and I knew what she meant, and me, first meeting her when I was around 9 or 10, and I was still extremely naive. So most of the time, I ended up staying awake til 3 AM on school nights and I would get only a few hours of sleep, and she'd be happy because her life wasn't worsened at all. But I think the thing that made me the most miserable, was the fact that it never got better. No matter how much I talked to her, or how sympathetic I tried to be, or how much I tried to convince her to be happier, it never got better. She still acted super depressed, but like it was a joke. All of these things combined to make me completely miserable because it seemed like it was all for nothing. But I just let it happen, because she was the only person I had and she was really my only "friend" at that point, and all the way up to seventh grade. So for that entire period of time, she certainly wasn't the only source of misery for me, but she made me feel way worse than I would have if I hadn't been friends with her. Question: Who continued to say she'd do something bad for some time after the story ends? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- the writer
- not enough information
- the writer's friend
- the writer's mom

Answer: not enough information

Question: He had apparently spaced out for a second or two. When he came to, a large, annoyed woman was leaning in toward him. "Mister? Mister, are you even listening to me?" He looked at the receding rows of fluorescent lights on the struts of the cavernous ceiling, the gleaming linoleum floors, the pallets of sale-priced plastic coolers and Special K and motor oil, and then he looked at the rack of merchandise at his back and understood that he was in a Wal-Mart, behind the returns counter. He heard his own voice saying, as if by reflex, "Do you have your receipt?" * At the first opportunity, he locked himself in a bathroom stall and dug out his wallet. His driver's license showed the right name, birthdate, and photo, but it had been issued by the State of North Carolina, and it listed an address he'd never heard of. He scrubbed his face at the sink. It was him in the mirror, a tanned and healthy 56, hair mostly gray but still all there. He felt groggy, as if he'd woken prematurely. It was only the numbness, he thought, that kept the panic at bay. If he didn't push, he found he knew the answers to some questions. He was due to clock out in an hour. When he left the parking lot he would go under the highway, turn left, and merge. * He found his way to a battered white Toyota pickup in the employee section. The key in his pocket started the engine. He forced himself not to think too hard as he drove, taking the turns that seemed to have a certain inevitability. He wound up on a dirt road near someplace called Pittsboro, in front of a small brick house surrounded by high yellow grass, pines, and live oaks. Question: Why did he lock himself in the bathroom === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- because he spaced out for a second or two
- not enough information
- because he was clocking out
- because he didn't recognize his driver license's profile
Answer: because he spaced out for a second or two

Question: The office smelled like money. Brand new carpet, somebody's expensive perfume still hanging in the air. The chairs in the waiting room are leather and the copy machine has a million attachments and there's pictures on the wall that I don't know what they're supposed to be. Made me ashamed of the shirt I was wearing, the cuffs all frayed and some of the buttons don't match. The secretary is a knockout and I figure Dennis has got to be getting in her pants. Red hair and freckles and shiny skin that looks like she just got out of a hot shower. A smile like she really means it. My name was in the book and she showed me right on in. Dennis shook my hand and put me in a chair that was slings and tube steel. The calendar next to his desk had a ski scene on it. Behind him was solid books, law books all in the same binding, also some biographies and political stuff. "Too bad you couldn't make the reunion," Dennis said. "It was a hoot." "I just felt weird about it," I said. I still did. It looked like he wanted me to go on, so I said, "I knew there'd be a bunch of y'all there that had really made good, and I guess I...I don't know. Didn't want to have to make excuses." "Hard to believe it's been twenty years. You look good. I still wouldn't want to run into you in a dark alley, but you look fit. In shape." "I got weights in the garage, I try to work out. When you're my size you can go to hell pretty quick. You look like you're doing pretty good yourself." Charlene is always pointing to people on TV and talking about the way they dress. With Dennis I could see for the first time what she's talking about. The gray suit he had on looked like part of him, like it was alive. When I think about him in grungy sweats back at Thomas Jefferson High School, bent double from trying to run laps, it doesn't seem like the same guy. Question: What is Dennis's job? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- He is a stockbroker
- not enough information
- He owes a car dealership
- He is a lawyer
Answer:
not enough information