November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." The main character is: A. musician B. asleep C. not enough information D. mechanic
D

One summer when I was 8 years old my father, mother, and I were rear ended by a 16 year old boy in a pickup truck. Insurance companies dawdled and by the time we received a settlement over a year later my parents had divorced. I was under full custody of my father living in a trailer in very rural Tennessee (Wayne County) with no electricity and a wood burning stove for heat. My mother was nowhere to be found until a few years later. We received the settlement and it turned out to be several thousand dollars. My dad turned on the electricity and bought our first computer, a Packard Bell. Now we needed dial up internet! -My what a change! Then he started dating online. He met a woman who lived in Franklin, TN (Williamson County), dated and married her (at least for a few years), worked at CompUSA for a few years, then started his own computer repair business which he and I ran from 2001 to 2014 before selling it. Williamson County population : 226,257 Wayne County population : 16,583 I ran a business with my father, graduated from a high school that was ranked 24/273 instead of one ranked of 223/273 in the state. The woman I married would not be the same, nor where I live and the lifestyle I now live, the jobs I have been able to get, the places I have been able to go, traveling around the US and to Canada and soon further abroad. The amazing things that I have experienced in my life are a pretty direct effect of some 16 year old kid not paying attention and rear ending my family. Of course certain decisions were made and things happened that took things down this particular path, but it all leads back to that night. Good night, and drive safely! What is probably true about the author's mother? A. She has remarried his father. B. Nobody knows where she is. C. not enough information D. She is in touch with the author.
D

It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland. Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled. And I must warn you before we begin, I don't know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do. I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa's stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor's prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn't know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn't prejudiced, but it simply wasn't so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn't say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet. Her father built the place: A. not enough information B. When they were living in Holland C. After the Nixes moved to North America D. While they were indentured servants
C

My then-teenage daughter and I went to a new restaurant. It was empty apart from the manager. We were told to find ourselves a table, so we sat in an attractive area sort of like a small stage. No waitress came by for 10 minutes, so we decided to visit the restroom; there was just one, with one toilet. But a woman rushed in ahead of us, carrying a bundle of clothes. Several minutes later, when she reappeared, we realized this was our waitressarriving late and pushing us customers out of the way so she could change. OK We each used the restroom and returned to our table. But it was not our table anymore. Along came the manager to explain she needed to set aside the stage-like area for a very special group. My daughter and I had already been debating whether to stay or leave. We stayed only because we were very hungry and worried that we'd have to start waiting all over again if we tried a different place. We were led to our new table: a lonely little table in the hall leading to the toilet. I was ready to get out of there, pronto, but my daughter spotted her favorite meal on the menu. But after another 15 minutes, with the lone waitress not appearing, we both shook our heads and got up Oh, here's the waitress! We ordered. Fifteen minutes later, no food. We got up again and exited past the stage-like area, which was just as empty as it had been when we were ejected. The very special people had not arrivedso (had we been served) we could have enjoyed our meal right there. We did find food elsewhere. The first place closed in less than a month. Good riddance! The daughter and parent probably think that: A. the manager is doing a great job B. not enough information C. the service at the restaurant is terrible D. the restaurant will be a hit in the neighborhood
C