Yes. I had a stress heart attack five years ago. My step-son is a heroin addict. He will be on an opioid agonist for the rest of his life. His behavior mirrored the worst of what addicts do to a family. I was desperate to make a change, and my husband was desperate to save his son's life. That meant having to watch my husband support my step-son as he abused me and my children. Multiple criminal behaviors, many times the police came to the house, two convictions, long-term parole. Watching him threaten to kill me, kill his father, and kill his younger brother and sister. Add to that a very stress job situation with a new boss who decided he needed a new VP, but had no basis to terminate my employment, so instead was determined to make my work life a living hell on earth. So, yep, I had a heart attack. I'm still angry at everything that led up to the heart attack. I'm working really hard on forgiving my husband, forgiving my step-son, and the overwhelming guilt of my children seeing me as an accomplice to their abuse. I found a new job, and then had the pleasure of seeing my former boss fired by the Board of Directors. Since then I find I'm hyper-vigilant in issues of child abuse, worker abuse, addiction, lying and deceit (Trump trigger), and feeling somewhat betrayed by my husband. I honestly think if it had been one of my children doing the abusing, I would have found a way to put my child into long-term rehab. I would not have pretended it wasn't happening, or "not that bad" or other form of denial. As is, I lived through this hell for two years, and a part of me will never forgive for how it all came about. Probably TMI, sorry. Becky Who did the stepson apologize to? - not enough information - His father's wife - Becky - his step mother
not enough information

(Question)
Justin Nelson, Jr., pounded the last of the stakes of his new cattle pen into the dry dirt. Like sentinels, they sprouted in a line from the barn, swerved north of the stream, veered at a right angle for the stump, and followed Justin to where he stood. The cross-beams remained, after which he'd finally be done. He took a white handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his forehead. The task had been lengthened considerably, although Justin refused to admit it, by incessant thinking, an activity which often stopped him with his hammer in mid-air. But now, he would soon be able to think all he wanted from the comfort of his porch as the cattle wandered from shade to shade. After he bought some cattle, he reminded himself. Under the entirely blue vault of sky, Justin felt something pass between himself and the morning sun. His leathered face turned up to see nothing but ubiquitous light, curving toward him in all directions. He arched his aging back, feeling the popping and hating it more than usual, before wiping his neck and replacing the handkerchief. He had that feeling that he'd better drink something and sit down or he'd end up in that damn hospital again. Twice last year, whether he needed it or not, he went in for a check-up, and twice a year, some intern treated him like the village idiot. Truth be told, everyone who knew about him had treated him that way for nearly eleven years, except his niece. With a sigh escaping from the bellows of his withering chest, Justin shuffled back to the porch he had added onto his small two-room home. In the distance, a plume of dust was billowing off the road. Mail truck. Must be time for breakfast. About time I ate something. About what time of day was it as Justin worked on the cattle pen? - not enough information - Dusk - Morning - Late night
(Answer)
Morning

Ques: PAUL Reynolds doodled idly on a bar napkin as he sipped at his margarita. All around him tourists of every size and shape were donning paper pirate hats and plastic eye patches. They were part of a relatively new Key West tradition called the Booty Hunt - a glorified bar crawl where participants followed a "treasure map" that led them from bar to bar, with occasional stops in private homes, and where the chief treasure to be found was the pleasure of being surrounded by fellow drunks and saying "Arrrr" a lot. Paul had participated a few times himself and was kind of embarrassed at how much fun it was. His pen drew a rough sketch of the crowd, although in his version they were actual pirates, in full dress with real swords and pistols and parrots. He took another sip and glanced around the bar, wondering where his drinking companion had gotten to. It was still early - just an hour or so after sunset, and Crooked Pete's was only half full. Located on Simonton, a block off the tourist-choked sidewalks of Duval Street, the bar hadn't hit its stride for the evening yet. The real crowd and the regulars would come later, once they had gotten a bite to eat and were ready for some serious, cheap drinking. He saw his friend Sandee emerge - finally - from the bathroom, smiling at Paul from across the bar while maneuvering through the gaggle of barhopping buccaneers. Thick, cascading black curls complemented Sandee's black sequined mini-dress that clung to every slim curve and emphasized shapely breasts. Sandee winked at one of the tourists, blowing the man a kiss as he ogled in naked admiration. "Did you miss me?" Sandee asked, sitting down beside Paul. "Of course," Paul replied, sliding another margarita to Sandee. "But your drink missed you more. All your ice is melting." "Oh, the poor darlings," Sandee cooed, licking the salt on the rim suggestively before taking a long swallow that emptied a third of the contents. The Booty Hunt probably lasted: - only for a few minutes - not enough information - all night - about an hour
Ans:
all night