Q: "To be real honest, Jeffrey, you're not making much progress," said Greg. "Are you practicing at all?" "Well, yeah. Mom makes me. She sits there watching to make sure I'm getting the right fingering and phrasing." "Hmm. I might need to talk to her about that." Greg hated when kids were forced into musicianship. He had been teaching private music lessons for more than ten years, and had seen it often. Parents made their kids miserable. It rarely worked anyway. "You don't really want to take piano, do you?" "No, Sir." "Well... " "I wish my mom would let me take guitar lessons. That would be cool." "You know you'd get calluses like this." Greg held out left hand and showed Jeffrey his fingertips. "Yeah! My friend, Zach, has calluses. They're hard like plastic." "Well, you know, it hurts for a while--until you build them up." "I don't care. I love the guitar. I've been begging Mom to switch me from piano to guitar." "I'll talk to her." "Great! I already have a guitar and--" "--don't get too excited yet. We'll see what she says." "Thanks, Mr. Tenorly." He jumped up and ran for the front door. Then he stopped, rushed back over to grab his piano books, and raced out the door. Greg's 3:30 lesson had been cancelled, so he now had a thirty minute break. Oftentimes, during a break, he would step outside and wander down the sidewalk, observing the townspeople going in and out of the shops around Coreyville Square. But something was bugging him. His dad's birthday party was only a few days away. He hoped he wouldn't regret letting Cynthia talk him into going. According to the above context, answer the following question. What does Greg think about kids being forced into playing music?

OPTIONS:
- He hates it.
- not enough information
- He thinks it makes kids happy.
- He thinks they are protecting their children from calluses.

A: He hates it.

input: OPTIONS:
- Ma's friend
- someone taking lessons
- not enough information
- the swimming teacher Now, answer this question: We gave Tiger swimming lessons in our plastic wading pool. I taught the kitten the way Pa taught me: I threw him into water where he could not stand, and I watched, ready to grab him if he went under. Tiger did not thrash desperately like me. He merely paddled urgently for the edge of the plastic pool with his head high and his thin legs churning. Little Bit said, "Dog paddle," and we all laughed. "Tiger paddle," I said, and we all laughed some more, even Jordy. That was probably when Ma noticed the kitten swimming lessons and stopped them. Our swimming lessons happened in two places. When Pa took us, we went to Hawkins Springs behind Mrs. DeLyons' Fountain of Youth Motor Hotel. When Ma took us, we drove to Mermaid Springs State Park, where we would sometimes meet Mr. Drake. I liked Mermaid Springs better because I felt safe there. Ma could not swim, so she never made me jump off a dock into deep water, and she always insisted that I wear an orange styrofoam cylinder on my back like a skindiver or spaceman. Ma usually sat on a towel on the grass near the beach, reading a magazine or a book while tanning her legs. Every now and then she would call to us not to go too far or not to splash each other. When she wore her one-piece red swimming suit, she would come in up to her waist, then lower herself to her shoulders, being careful not to get her hair wet. On the rarest occasions, she would wear a swimming cap and float on her back in the shallow water. Often she stayed in her shorts and shirt, adding sunglasses and removing shoes as her concession to summer and the beach. According to the above context, answer the following question. Who was probably Mr. Drake?
A:
output: the swimming teacher

Problem:OPTIONS:
- He does not have a car
- not enough information
- He will never retire
- He likes the snow

Michael Morzeny put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hugged the fabric tighter around his body. The winter wind hurried down Columbus Avenue and the hem of his coat flapped around his knees letting little pockets of cold waft up to invade the warmth his body had spent so much time preparing and storing around his torso. With a bitter squeeze of his hands, his knuckles now getting cold, Morzeny bowed his square shoulders to the wind and continued walking. At sixty-seven years old the New York winters bothered Morzeny more than he cared to admit. And, although no doctor would admit it to him, he was positive that the first faint hints of arthritis tweaking through his hands were made worse by the cold. At every cross street the setting sun flashed through to the avenue in shades of crisp pink and red. Morzeny didn't want to be working right now. But these outings were the price he paid for having a hybrid job, owning buildings and brokering as many of his own leases as possible. When he had first come to the city he had been told that he needed a job, not for income, his providers took care of that, but for his own sanity. Something to keep him going. He had asked for something in real estate and had never bothered to wonder what other paths he might have taken. He had always been able to focus to the point of blindness. It helped him in every aspect of his work. He arrived at the brownstone building housing the apartment he was to show tonight. His building was tucked into a short row of buildings that squatted over the street, their steps reaching towards the curb like stunted growths. More to prove to himself that he could do it than anything else, Morzeny took the front steps two at a time. According to the above context, answer the following question. What is most likely true about Morzeny?
****
A:
He does not have a car