I don't reckon the sun's ever come up quite the same since the day it happened. I've been watching it for years now and to me it still don't look right somehow. Maybe it's just me thinking it, sending myself doolally after what I've done. But I swear every morning it creeps up and it's looking at me, all knowing like. And when you reckon the sun's acting like that over you there isn't a right lot you can do about it, beyond burying yourself away like a mole in the soil. That's what I've been doing more or less in the score or so years that have gone by since. But however tight I shut them curtains to stop that damn sun lighting me up, it still don't stop the inside of my head from pounding out the truth. No way it's ever going to stop harassing me neither, not unless the deaf and dumb lass was to happen right back on my doorstep and give me the chance to tell her that it wasn't never meant to work out this way. The deaf and dumb lass went by the name of Mitzi Barker. Her being deaf and dumb, she was the kind of lass you went up the lane with if you didn't want no-one shouting their gob off about it after. Funny but it's the small things I recall best about her, like the way her hair reeked of bonfires and how that little old checkered dress of hers rode right up her thigh with no help from me. After we'd finished our business we'd head over the trout farm and I'd hunker down and poach us up a couple of rainbows for our tea. That Mitzi Barker, she was thin as an ear of barley and I always figured a good nosh-up was the least I could do for her troubles. Question: The narrator and Mitzi would eat trout: === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- Never.
- after they had relations.
- not enough information
- before they would have relations.
after they had relations.

"Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine. "Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob. "I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure." "Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict." "I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist." "Hmm." "Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?" "Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana." "Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street." "Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life." "I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot," "I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting." "He's said that to me too." "Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?" "Yes." "He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts." "Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent." "I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." Question: What will the parents probably do if their son does not stop doing drugs? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- Send him to a family member
- Disown him as their son
- Kick him out of their condo
- not enough information

Answer: Kick him out of their condo

"That's Glenn Miller," my father said. "But it can't be." He had the back of the hospital bed cranked upright, the lower lid of his left eye creeping up in a warning signal I'd learned to recognize as a child. My older sister Ann had settled deep in the recliner, and she glared at me too, blaming me for winding him up. The jam box sat on the rolling tray table and my father was working the remote as he talked, backing up my newly burned CD and letting it spin forward to play a few seconds of low fidelity trombone solo. "You know the tune, of course," he said. "'King Porter Stomp.'" Those childhood years of listening to him play Glenn Miller on the console phonograph were finally paying off. "He muffed the notes the same way on the Victor version." "So why can't it be Miller?" I asked. "He wouldn't have played with a rabble like that." The backup musicians teetered on the edge of chaos, playing with an abandon somewhere between Dixieland and bebop. "They sound drunk." My father had a major emotional investment in Miller. He and my mother had danced to the Miller band at Glen Island Casino on Long Island Sound in the summer of 1942, when they were both sixteen. That signature sound of clarinet and four saxes was forever tied up for him with first love and the early, idealistic months of the war. But there was a better reason why it couldn't have been Miller playing that solo. If the date on the original recording was correct, he was supposed to have died three days earlier. The date was in India ink on a piece of surgical tape, stuck to the top of a spool of recording wire. The handwritten numerals had the hooks and day-first order of Europe: 18/12/44. I'd won it on eBay the week before as part of a lot that included a wire recorder and a stack of 78s by French pop stars like Charles Trenent and Edith Piaf. Question: Who had a major emotional investment in Miller? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- The narrator
- Ann
- The father.
- not enough information
The father.