input with options: "It's about to come on. Hurry." "I'm coming." Nurse Judy delivered Martha's tray just in time. It was a frozen dinner, but Judy always transferred it to a fancy plate and prepared a small salad and a bowl of applesauce to go alongside it. "Looks great, Judy. Now sit down and let's eat." Nurse Judy sat down in the recliner next to Martha's bed. The meal she made for herself was similar to Martha's. "Didn't we just see this one a few days ago?" "I don't remember. But you know it doesn't matter. I love Jessica Fletcher." It was the only good thing about her failing memory. She could watch reruns of Murder She Wrote over and over again. They were all new to her. The doorbell rang. "Whoever it is, just get rid of them. It couldn't be friends or family. They know better than to interrupt my show." Nurse Judy walked down the hallway to the front door. It was a nurse. "May I help you?" "The agency sent me." "No, there must be some mistake. I've been caring for Mrs. Mason for a couple of months now." "Oh, great. Why do they keep doing this to me? Mind if I come in and use the phone?" "Don't you have a cell phone?" "Yeah, but it's dead. I forgot to charge it last night." "I hate when I do that. Sure, come on in. What's your name?" "Carnie." "Good to meet you, Carnie. I'm Judy. You can use the house phone." Judy led her to the phone. Carnie picked up the receiver and began to dial. But as Judy turned to walk away, Carnie slammed the phone across the back of her head. Nurse Judy collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Martha's blaring TV masked the noise. Question: What did Martha eat for dinner === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- A frozen dinner and a small salad
- Pizza
- Chicken breast
output: A frozen dinner and a small salad

Q: I was one of the best fingerprint examiners in the world. I could do things the FBI thought impossible. I could memorize fingerprints. The nearby agencies, including local offices of federal agencies that had their own labs, came to me for help. One day in a trial a new-hatched defence attorney tried to make me seem neglectful because I hadn't sent the prints from the crime scene to the FBI for verification. The FBI will not look at prints that have already been identified locally. I tried to get that across to him. Finally I said, "Sir, you don't understand. I don't ask the FBI for help. The FBI asks me for help." The courtroom went dead silent. The lawyer choked a bit and looked frantically at the judge, who knew me quite well. The judge slowly nodded. The lawyer choked a few more times, said, "No further questions," and returned to his seat. I was the only person in the five-state area in which the silver burglar was hitting who got him on fingerprint evidence. He never left fingerprint evidence . . . except when he did. Every other police agency quit looking, because his MO was unmistakable. We didn't. A detective got prints from a bamboo tree he had used to climb in a window, and I got several prints from items he had handled inside the house. After the trial he was being led back to the jail and I was walking down the hall. He stopped and said, "I want to talk to that lady." The bailiff told him he couldn't talk to the witness, but I said I wanted to hear what he had to say. He said, "Lady, you're the smartest cop I ever saw, and I hope to God I never see you again." I think that was the best compliment I ever got. I have other accomplishments. But I consider my police work the most important. Question: What could the fingerprint examiner memorize? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- fingerprints
- not enough information
- case facts
- suspect profiles

A: fingerprints

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: Who disapproved of buying the oranges? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- The seller
- Marco
- The narrator
- not enough information

Answer:
Marco