Problem: OPTIONS:
- on a Thursday
- not enough information
- on a Friday
- on a Sunday
Q: I'm sitting at the airport on a Sunday morning waiting for my flight to Las Vegas for the now-annual pilgrimage to the NamesCon conference. A few years ago, Vegas was one of my "bucket list" places one of those iconic cities that one should visit at least once in their life. For me, once was enough. This is now my 4th (I think?) trip to Vegas, and while the city has a lot to offer, it's just not my cup of tea. For one thing, I'm not a gambler, like at all. I don't have anything against it, I just don't enjoy it. It either feels pointless or stressful to me. The city itself makes me a little sad in some cases, it reeks of desperation. Last time I was there, my cab driver entertained me with stories of how she was working 3 jobs to save up enough to join some mega-massive bingo game. She won a small jackpot a few years back and that allowed her to work only one job for a few months. She was hoping to win again so she could cut back to 1 or 2 jobs. I wondered how many people do similar things gambling their money away, in big or small chunks, in the hopes of that big score and in the process, putting themselves in a not-great financial situation. I suppose as long it makes them happy, then it's all OK, but I can't help but think someone like my cab driver might be happier overall if she only worked 1 job instead of 3, instead of working extra jobs to save up money to gamble her way to financial freedom. But that's for her to decide, not me. The juxtaposition of extreme and in-your-face wealth and the homeless people on the Strip also makes me sad. It's difficult to see people begging for food and sleeping on the street while all around you, millions of dollars are poured into creating a massive playground with every type of indulgence possible. But I'm the first to say that I've enjoyed staying in some of the nicer hotel properties there and eating several excellent meals at some of the finer restaurants in the area, so I'm not exactly helping to solve the problem. Question: When did the author sit at the airport waiting to go to Las Vegas? === The answer to the above question is
Answer: on a Sunday

Problem:OPTIONS:
- a few hours
- a few weeks
- not enough information
- a few days

Mr. Drake hurried into the trailer, and Ethorne, Gwenny, Johnny Tepes, and I looked up as Mrs. DeLyon followed him. He looked at me. "Where would Digger go?" I shrugged and blinked. The question made no sense; Digger would not go anywhere. When he slept, he slept for ten hours. You could toss him around like a sack of potatoes, and he would not wake up. With one exception. "Bathroom?" Mrs. DeLyon shook her head. "No." Mr. Drake said, "And he's not in any of the beds. We looked in all three." Mrs. DeLyon said, "And under them. And I called for him. He wouldn't hide from me, would he?" I shook my head. Ethorne got up, went to the door, and shouted, "Digger! Where is you, Digger-boy? You don't need to hide no more. Everything's fine now!" The dogs barked in response, but no person answered. Mrs. DeLyon said, "Call Dr. Lamont. Maybe Susan put him in the backseat and forgot to tell us." Mr. Drake's voice held as little hope for that as Mrs. DeLyon's, but he said, "All right." Mrs. DeLyon said, "We'll get Chris to bed in the meantime." "I'm in charge," I said. Ethorne said, "When there's nothing you can do, you might as well sleep. Save your strength for when you need it." Mrs. DeLyon said, "Don't worry. At least one of us will stay in the trailer until your folks get back." Gwenny said, "C'mon, boyfriend. I'll see you to your bed." I said, "I can go by myself." Gwenny looked at Mrs. DeLyon, then at Johnny Tepes. "Well, that's a blow to a girl's ego." They smiled without much humor, and Mr. Drake hung up the phone. Ethorne said, "What is it?" Mr. Drake said, "Let's get Chris to bed first." I stood and went to the door. "G'night." Question: How long had Digger likely have been missing? === The answer to the above question is
****
A: a few hours

input: OPTIONS:
- after he threw it away
- not enough information
- after he left
- after he laid it on the table Now, answer this question: William White sat across from me, fidgeting nervously with an empty packet of artificial sweetener while his coffee went cold, ignored on the table in front of him. He rolled the torn yellow paper up like a tight little spliff, then unrolled it, smoothed it out flat, and then rolled it again. I was midway through my third cup of coffee with no intention of stopping soon. I was tired and edgy, irritated at William for dragging me out at this time of night, and getting even more irritated at his refusal to get to the point. 'Did you know Philip K. Dick had a twin sister?' I stared at him blankly. 'Her name was Jane. She died shortly after their birth. They were six weeks premature,' he continued, his eyes drifting off to the window to his right. I wasn't sure if he was looking at something through it or staring at his own reflection in it. 'Dick never got over Jane's death; her ghost haunted him throughout his life, and the idea of a phantom twin pops up throughout his work. Some have even speculated that Dick's inability to make peace with the loss of his sister contributed to his drug abuse, and by extension also his death at the relatively young age of 53.' He unrolled the sweetener packet, laid it on the table, placed both index fingers together in its center, and then spread them outward, smoothing the paper flat. I reached out and slammed my own hand on top of the packet, preventing him from fiddling with it anymore. 'Sorry,' he said sheepishly. I let out a sigh. 'Not that this isn't fascinating, but did you seriously call me out to Denny's at 3 am for this?' Question: When did William place both index fingers on the sweetener packet? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output:
after he laid it on the table