Write a question from the passage such that it identifies a character (a person or a thing) in the passage.

Example Input: I love going to the spa. Honestly, who doesn't. These days, unfortunately, my spa trips are few and far between. I blame the damn kids for that one! So, as you can imagine, I was pretty damn excited when the in-laws presented me with an Urban Spa voucher for the Urban Indulgence package: one hour hot stone Lomi Lomi massage followed by a Heavenly Spa Facial - two hours on indulgent bliss, for Christmas.
I had never had a hot stone massage before so was very much looking forward to this, if nothing else out of curiosity about what is involved. Whenever you see pictures advertising a hot stone massage, the beautiful model always has a bunch of largish stones on her back so I wasn't sure whether it was more an acupressure experience where they left the stones strategically placed on the back to work their magic or whether it was an actual massage. Turns out that it is an actual massage. I requested a firm massage as my back has really been giving me issues. Carrying 15kgs of Crazy Kid or 9kgs of Kiki (or 26kgs of double babies) really isn't too good for the back so it had been causing me problems for a couple of months. My therapist (the lovely Kristy) gave me an expertly firm massage and used a small, smooth hot stone, along with her hands, to perform the massage. It was quite a unique experience as one minute I could sense that she was using her hands to do the massage then then next I'd get a sweep of hotness as the stone was run over me. It really was a delightful sensory experience. As my back was a problem area, Kristy spent 30 minutes just on that then the other 30 minutes was spent on the rest of my body. I could feel myself drifting in and out of consciousness throughout the massage. One really special thing about this massage was that the massage table was heated. Such a small touch, but one that was greatly appreciated (although it was a great contributor to my lack of consciousness!).
Example Output: Who gave the tired mom a massage?

Example Input: The surgeon who had delivered my son by C-section an hour earlier stepping back from the table, and saying, "We're done, people. Good job, everyone!"
That hour had been hell for everyone in the room, save only my little boy, sleeping peacefully in the warming crib, and his mother, who was just stirring from the general that had put her under about 55 minutes earlier. I had come within a few minutes, maybe seconds, of raising my boy as a single parent. Her OB/GYN had fought valliently to keep my family together, and won. Everyone who'd been awake knew exactly how close run a thing it had been. Mr. Murphy had been hanging around the whole time, and neither Doc nor mom was catching a whole lot of breaks that evening. But Doc only needed one, and he made full use thereof.
One thing for all new dad's whose wives have had previous abdominal surgery. You never want to hear the muttered words, "Creative anatomy on the way out", when somebody has your wife's belly open. Those are about the worst words in the world, because they mean Doc's gotta put stuff to right in there, and he might not have what he'd like in order to get it done.
But when he stands back, after the sponge count had to be done twice, and the tool count is right, and the belly is stapled closed, and everyone in the room is still breathing Just let it be known that the roving nurse has extra sponges for dad's nose.
Oh yeah, and the neonatal nurses don't expect dad to change that first diaper. Maconium is nasty shit. Litterally. But I was happy to do it while talking to his groggy mom.
Example Output: Who had the C-section?

Example Input: That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning.
Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed.
"Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream.
Sometimes I hated those girls.
"Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here?
"Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?"
My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening.
Example Output:
Who wore a silk scarf?