Q: I was 14 at the time. My family and I took a family vacation to Tybee Island, Georgia. It is a beautiful place that I would highly recommend. I told my family that I was going to go find a port-a-pot. So I head off by myself. I'm in the port-a-pot, i'm in there for roughly 10 minutes. (you can assume what I was doing) I wash my hands and get ready to leave the port-a-pot, and I tried to open the door and it was locked. I'm claustrophobic, so I start to FREAK OUT. I started banging on the door, running into the door with all of my weight. Nothing was helping. I then start crying, I thought for sure that I was going to die. I knew it was the end, at the age of 14, locked in a port-a-pot, in 95 degree weather in the middle of a beach in Georgia. Looking back, i'm curious as to why my family never came to look for me, I was gone for like 30 minutes. So I'm banging on the door continuously, bawling my eyes out. Then a man opened the door for me, from the outside. He was about 6'3 with dreads about 12 inches long and weighed about 280 pounds. I ran out of the port-a-pot and jumped on the guy and gave him a hug and told him that I loved him and that he saved my life. I don't know how he managed to open the door for me, but I definitely know that my 14 year old self owes that man my life. I'm not sure where he is in life, or what he's doing, but I hope God is blessing him abundantly. It is definitely a funny story to tell my friends. Question: Where did the author get trapped? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- In the port-a-pot
- In the hotel in Georgia
- not enough information
- In the ocean

A: In the port-a-pot

input: OPTIONS:
- is a doctor
- sales water
- is bored
- not enough information Now, answer this question: The young man (boy, really) played with his fingers in the garish light cast from the lone bulb in the concrete bunker. He scratched at an imaginary itch on his right hand (just below his thumb) to take his mind off the man in the lab coat who sat across from him at the beaten, scarred, wood table. It didn't work. And whoever this man in the lab coat was, he was insistent about paperwork. He had three inches clipped onto a weathered clipboard which he flipped through with precision. "Can I offer you a glass of water?" asked the boy's captor in a calm, sensitive tenor. The boy, Kurt, continued to scratch the imaginary itch, which had leapt magically from his right hand to the left. Eventually the falseness of the itch would be deduced, and the lab coated man would disappear out of the cell and return with... God knows what. He had seen torture hundreds-if not thousands-of times on TV, and he was glumly certain that there would be no commercial breaks for him. "Can I offer you a glass of water?" The question was repeated without urgency, like a forgetful waiter. The itch now leaped with the dexterity of a trained flea onto the boy's leg, and the dutiful fingers followed. He watched as the man in the lab coat, without name tag or company insignia, studied his stack of papers attached to the clipboard. Several yellow forms near the top half inch were labeled 27B. The man frowned and wrote a note on the top page. "Note: Find out who isn't duplicating 27B in Pink." "I'm sorry," he said, "I wasn't listening. Was that a yes or no to the water?" Kurt remained in his chair, almost motionless, except for the itching-and-scratching routine. It had leapt again, this time onto his scalp, and the twitching fingers followed. He wondered how long he could keep this up without drawing blood. Question: The man in the lab coat: === The answer to the above question is
A:
output: is a doctor

Problem:OPTIONS:
- worked in a factory
- not enough information
- worked in a restaurant
- worked in a school

Thanks for the A2A Josh: Tough one to reduce to just a single incident but I'll try. I grew up in North Central Indiana, about 50 miles south of South Bend. It was common to have frequent snow accumulation in the winter and blustery, freezing temps. It seems like this was particularly true during my childhood in the 70's and 80's. My family was blue collar through and through. We lived in the heartland in a town of just a few hundred with a sawmill and an on again off again gas station as our only two businesses. My dad worked in a factory for roughly 45 years. He apparently started that job right out of high school. My mom was an incredibly hard worker and Still is to this day. She did factory work, restaurant management and everything in between. It was this Protestant work ethic that led to one of the frequent tasks that my brother and I had to do which was not fun but ultimately was a very good deed. As I said, winters were often snowy and harsh. So my mom would make my brother and me shovel driveways and sidewalks for a couple of elderly residents. We did this of course, after we did our own driveway. Some people had motorized snowblowers but we did not. Standard snow shovels were our tools. I remember us whining about the chore, wishing we could just play in the snow or get out of it altogether. I don't remember being overly conscious of the relief this provided for our elderly neighbors. I just remember that Mom would be disappointed if we didn't do a good job. Later in life I would have great appreciation for the things required of me by my parents. Factory work and summer farm jobs helped us learn the value of hard work and would set us on a road to appreciation of future job opportunities that were less taxing. I still remember hating shoveling snow. But I'm forever grateful that I did it. Question: What did his dad do for a living? === The answer to the above question is
****
A:
worked in a factory