Read the following context and answer the question. Context: Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee. "I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands. Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you." Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?" Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound. "Ow." "Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind. In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son. When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind. "There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?" "It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?" She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch." Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade. "Can I see your sword?" She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" Question: When will Aya be able to perform magic like Li Reiko? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- Two years after the events in the story
- not enough information
- Three years after the events in the story
- One year after the events in the story
not enough information

Read the following context and answer the question. Context: Greg Tenorly drove the familiar route from the church to his music studio, studying the homes along the way. He wondered about the families who lived in each one. Like that two-story brick on the corner. What secrets were they hiding? Was the husband abusive? Did a teenager use drugs? Was the family nearly bankrupt? How could anyone know? It was better not to know. The mind can only handle so many problems at one time. He wondered where Troy and Cynthia Blockerman lived. Greg had appeared at the courthouse that morning as part of a jury pool, only to be released. He and the rest of his group would have to return the next morning. He hoped they would not need him. The church would pay his regular part-time salary while he was serving on a jury, but any private lessons he missed would be money lost. Greg's red 1965 Pontiac Bonneville convertible always turned heads as he drove through the small town. He had purchased it two months earlier from a career Navy man down in Longview who had babied the thing for years. It spent most of its life in the man's garage, coming out only when he was on leave. Most trips were to the car wash or the Pontiac dealer for scheduled maintenance. Greg gladly paid $4,000 for it. The sailor called him the very next day and tried to buy it back. He said it was like losing a member of the family. Greg felt bad, but not bad enough to give up the car. How could a 40-year-old car have only 93,000 miles on it? It was dazzling. His little studio was near the town square, nestled between Coreyville Hardware and Susie's Sewing Box. Occasionally he and a student could hear a pipe wrench or hammer hitting the floor on the hardware side. But things were always quiet from Susie's side. At least the soundproofing he had installed kept his neighbors from hearing his students. You can't teach music without hearing both beautiful sounds and sour notes. Question: How much time Greg spent at the courthouse? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- few days
- Few hours
- Few minutes
- not enough information

Answer: Few minutes

Read the following context and answer the question. Context: I have never been a stop-and-smell-the-roses type of person. For me, there's always something that has to be done. In fact, the biggest complaint that my husband and two children have about me is that I'm "always busy." Seventeen years ago, when my oldest son was about a year old, he woke up in a very fussy mood. Instead of being his usual cheerful and compliant self, he just wanted to be cuddled. A mother's dream, right? Well, not for me. There was too much to be done; I didn't have time to hold him. I was well aware that in addition to some projects I was working on, there was laundry to be washed and ironed, breakfast dishes to do, a house that needed cleaning. My usual response would have been to try to coax my son into cheerfulness, or to put him back to bed to sleep it off. But it was clear that he was unwell, so against my usual inclination, I decided that I would just hold him. The chores could wait another day. So I settled into the recliner chair in the lounge room and held my son while he slept. I dozed occasionally too, waking up now and then to enjoy the feeling of snuggling my baby and looking at the world beyond the window. It was a cold day, but clear and sunny. The trees rustled in the gentle breeze, and birds and butterflies flitted about the garden. Inside, my son and I stayed snuggled together under a blanket for most of the day. He slept while I, for one of the few times in my life, just drank in the beauty of the world and the happiness of sharing this time with my son. Better mothers than I am must have done similar things many, many times with their children. But for me, this very small decision, this day of 'laziness', became a treasured memory. Question: How old is the author's other child? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- 16
- 14
- not enough information
- 15
not enough information