input with options: In my early 20s, I was a one-on-one aide for a couple of teenagers with cerebral palsy. With the first one, I was hired by and worked for the family. I picked the teen up from school every day and took care of him until he was in bed for the night. When he passed away, I took a job with the local school district. My client at the school had spastic quadriplegia. He could talk and was actually very smart, but he had no control over his arms or legs. He couldn't walk. He was never going to walk. The law requires that special education students be put in the least restrictive classroom environment possible. Since this kid was smart and could communicate well, and wasn't a discipline problem, he had all regular classes. His only accommodation was a one-on-one aide (me), and he was allowed to be late to classes without consequence because we sometimes had to stop in a special room, get him out of his chair, and stretch his legs a little. Basically ten minutes of physical therapy, two or three times per day. Anyway, since this kid was legally required to take all the classes a normal student his age would take, he had to take Physical Education (gym). And, legally, his aide (me) had to accommodate his participation in every class as much as possible, including gym. Most gym classes began with the students doing laps around the track, then participating in a team sport. He couldn't do the team sport, but, according to the lawyers involved, he should participate in the "laps around the track" part of gym. So I had to push this kid in a wheelchair around the track for about 15 minutes each day, until the other kids were all done and off doing the next activity. Then he and I were able to leave gym class and go do some physical therapy in his own little room just for that. Because, you know lawyers and rules. Question: The narrator typically helps his client for how long? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- One day
- 15 minutes
- not enough information
- One hour
output: One day

Q: "That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be." He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo. "You know the tune, of course," he said. "'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off. "He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version." "So why can't it be Miller?" I asked. "He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk." My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war. But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier. The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. Question: Why did the son questioned the father? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- Because he did not know if the father remembered that far back.
- Because he did not want to feell like he was duped.
- not enough information
- Because he wanted to know what he bought.

A: Because he wanted to know what he bought.

What would you do you're driving past hundreds of citrus trees. With a better look, they're mandarins, or, more precisely clementines. On the roadside is a truck selling crates of them for 1 euro a kilo. You stop, right? And buy a crate of 10 kilos. Even though you have to get on a plane the next day. I couldn't help myself. Marco, who I had already made turn 180 degrees to drive back to the truck, gave me that look of disapproval when I want to do something totally unreasonable like impulse buy citrus fruit that we can't keep. "What are we going to do with these?" He questioned. I wasn't sure. I wanted to taste them, I wanted to photograph them. And maybe I could even squeeze some of them into our tiny bag to take home. "It won't be a waste, I'll give the rest away!" I reasoned. He just shook his head, giving in. I bought them, a big grin on my face. We were just outside the port city of Taranto, on the western coast of Puglia in Italy's deep south, where we spent a long weekend recently and where clementines have special IGP (Protected Geographical Indication) status. These clementines a hybrid of oranges and mandarins grow in the fertile soil around the gulf of Taranto, particularly around the town of Palagiano (also known as "the city of clementines" they celebrate the symbol of their city with a sagra, a food festival, every December) and the delicate fruit is harvested by hand. We don't get these in Florence, it was my only chance to taste them they are small with very few, if any, seeds, and they are very sweet. Question: What does the narrator probably do for fun? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- Buy fruit
- Travel to other places
- pick oranges

Answer:
Travel to other places