Pirate gold. Coins, rings, ingots. Necklaces of emeralds and opals and sapphires. Chalices, bracelets, daggers inlaid with diamonds and lapis and ivory. Malone rolled over in the soft hotel bed. Not just gold but the things it would buy. A two-story house of brick and wrought iron. Greek columns in front and coaches parked in the drive. Built high on the center of Galveston Island, away from the deadly storms of the Gulf, away from the noise and stink of the port. White servants and negro slaves. Fair-haired women to sit at the piano in his parlor. Dark-skinned women to open their legs to him in the secrecy of the night... He sat up in a sweat. I will think no evil thoughts, he told himself. Outside, the sun rose over New Orleans. Horse-drawn carts creaked and rattled through the streets, and chickens complained about the light. The smell of the Mississippi, damp and sexual, floated through the open window. Malone got up and put a robe on over his nightshirt, despite the heat. He turned up the gas lamp over the desk, took out pen, ink and paper, and began to write. 'My dearest Becky...' * He smelled the French Market before he saw it, a mixture of decayed fruit, coffee, and leather. He crossed Decatur Street to avoid a side of beef hung over the sidewalk, swarming with flies. Voices shouted in a dozen different languages. All manner of decrepit wooden carts stood on the street, their contents passed from hand to hand until they disappeared under the yellow canvas awnings of the market. Beyond the levee Malone could see the tops of the masts of the tall ships that moved toward the Governor Nicholl's Street Wharf. Who smelled the French Market? A. A white servant B. not enough information C. a chicken D. Malone
D

(Question)
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. Who is the narrator of the story? A. not enough information B. A university student who is gaining experience and skills from helping out clients. C. Someone that is employed by a school to assist students with disabilities. D. A paid specialist who assist clients with disabilities.
(Answer)
A

I am currently waiting for peer reviews of two books I've worked on: one sole-authored, one co-authored. We don't talk much about the experience of waiting for reviews, and it's not something that appears to have been researched. Yet it's something everyone doing academic work has to go through and it may be bad for our mental health. I'm finding it particularly difficult at the moment because a lot rides on these reviews. The sole-authored book, which is on a contentious topic, has already had one set of reviews. Reviewer 1 was utterly damning, saying "I couldn't find anything to praise". Luckily, Reviewers 2 and 3 were more measured, offering both praise and constructive criticism, and their input helped me to revise and strengthen the typescript. However, in the process, my editor and I realised that we needed further reviews from people with a particular kind of specialist knowledge. My editor approached around ten potential reviewers, but only one agreed to do the job. So I'm gibbering what if that person agrees with Reviewer 1? The co-authored book is in a contentious format. My co-authors and I decided that I would be the person to liaise with publishers, as I have form in this process. The last time I liaised with academic publishers for a co-authored book was in the early 2000s, and I'd forgotten how heavily responsible it makes me feel. Fortunately, I've found a publisher that is interested and has sent the book out for reviews, to two professional academics and two students. This is great and terrifying but at least there are four reviewers. Even so, what if they all think it's rubbish? In many ways I love the peer review system. I welcome feedback on my writing, and I'm not at all averse to constructive criticism. I am by no means arrogant enough to think I can write a good book without input from others. Yet peer review, as a process, is fraught with uncertainty. Comments may not be constructive, or may not come at all. They may be positive, or negative, or in between, or a mixture. When did the narrator liaise with publishers? A. not enough information B. Because his editor wanted it C. Because the book was in a contentious format D. Because he hated peer reviews
C