I was lost. As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open. When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil. I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite. A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack. I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here? "Who the hell else would be working here?" he said. I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked. It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. Question: When did the narrator pay Jack? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- After talking about his mom.
- Before pumping the gas.
- not enough information
- After pumping the gas.

Answer: After pumping the gas.

Problem: OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- because she had never been to a salon before
- because she was developmentally delayed
- because it wasn't want the stylist wanted
Q: My mother's first career was as a beautician. Growing up, she cut everyone in our family's hair; she dyed mine whenever I wanted, and whatever crazy color I wanted, too. Until I was a senior in high school, I had never been to a salon. I don't even remember why I went this time. Mom was going to have her hair done, and I had tagged along. She asked if I wanted a cut too and I said why not? So while Mom was getting her hair done I looked through the books and picked out a cute pageboy style that I liked. Finally it was my turn and after talking with the stylist and showing her what I wanted, she led me to the shampoo station. Now, as everybody who has ever been to a salon knows, you sit back in the chair with your neck in the indentation and they wash your hair. But I had never been to a salon. When mom washed my hair after dyeing it, I always leaned over the sink. So I started to climb into the chair and lean over the sink here, too. My mom was mortified and the stylist couldn't figure out what in the heck I was doing. Mom calls out, "No, Jennifer you sit in the chair." I look over my shoulder at her and then realize what I've done. Red-faced, I stand up and then turn around to sit and lean back in the chair. I honestly wanted to die right there. I'm pretty sure the stylist thought I was developmentally delayed or something because she talked to me for the rest of the time like one would talk to a three-year-old. Mom tried to explain that I'd never been to a salon before, but I think that just made the situation worse. Thankfully I've been to many salons now and understand how everything works, but I've never returned to THAT one. Question: Why didn't Jennifer sit properly in the salon chair? === The answer to the above question is
Answer: because she had never been to a salon before

input with options: Jenny turned her nose up at me as I sat down, sniffing loudly and filling her nostrils with the strong alcohol stink I was emitting. "So have you been drinking already this morning, or are you just still drunk from last night?" "A little of both," I said. She peered at me disapprovingly over her iced latte. We were sitting at a table in front of a strip mall coffee shop. Jenny was wearing huge gold-rimmed sunglasses and had a decent collection of shopping bags gathered at her feet. "Busy afternoon?" I asked. "Just picking up a few things for Mexico. We leave tomorrow morning." My attention was drawn away by a group of men in black jumpsuits standing around in the parking lot next to a white van with the red Asterion logo painted on its side. It was hard to tell, but I thought one of them was the same guy I'd seen on the Light Rail a couple days before, the one who'd been reading the paper. Jenny seemed to notice my distraction and followed my gaze. "Is something wrong?" "No, it's just those Asterion guys seem to be everywhere now. I guess business must be booming." "Yeah, we hired them last month to archive our old financial records," Jenny replied. "They came in and hauled everything away, I was so happy to get all that empty space back. Of course it doesn't really matter now, since I'm going to have to find a new job when I get back from the honeymoon. "Anyways, I'm rambling," she admitted good-naturedly. "So what did you want to talk to me about?" "I wanted to ask you about someone I met last night." She bared her teeth ecstatically in a knowing grin. "Really? A woman, I presume." "Settle down, it's not like that. She's just a girl who said she can help introduce me to Dylan Maxwell." "Was it Natalie?" she asked. "I don't know. She was wearing a motley dress and a black veil." "Yep, that's Natalie," Jenny confirmed. Question: Who believes the narrator should stop drinking? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- Jenny
- not enough information
- Dylan
- Natalie
output:
Jenny