"Congratulations, jackass, you just got us sued." My editor, Sharon, was standing in front of my desk. She was apparently not happy. I shrugged, slouching further down in my chair, trying to hide from her gigantic crazy eyes behind my computer. It was a white laptop with a sticker that said "This Machine Kills Yuppies" slapped over the corporate logo on back. She reached out with one of her freakish man-hands and slammed the screen shut. "Let me try this again. You just got us sued six times over." Sharon Sinclair was a six-foot-tall beast of a woman with a huge mane of wiry black and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. I had every confidence that she could tear me in two and use my bloody carcass in some kinky hedonistic lesbian cult ritual or something. So I usually tried to choose my words with the appropriate care around her. "Jesus-fucking-Christ, I haven't even had my morning coffee yet, and my head's still reeling from the Louisville Slugger that pummeled it last night. So I really don't feel like dealing with whatever annoying hormonal episode you have going on here." She glared at me silently, watching me squirm a little before asking, "Are you done?" "Probably." "Good," she said with a suppressed grin as she took a seat next to me. "Because I just let you publicly accuse the mayor and the valley's most powerful corporations of conspiring to defraud the taxpayers. So what's your plan for keeping my ass off the firing line?" I tilted back in my chair and met Sharon's gaze. "Look, we knew we'd get a strong reaction. Let them sue. We have e-mails to back us up." "These legal briefings say your e-mails were forged," she responded, waving a thick stack of papers in my face. "Of course they're gonna say that. That's why I made sure to get corroboration. Abrasax confirmed that the e-mails between Dylan Maxwell and City Hall are legit. But you know all this, so I don't know why we're wasting time going over it again." What will be the result of the lawsuit? - The protagonist will win the case. - The protagonist will lose the case. - The protagonist will settle with the plaintiffs out of court. - not enough information
not enough information

"Please remember me to myself!" When sliding toward mania in 2016, I begged this of my therapist. He cocked his head. "What do you mean?" I had no ideaon a conscious levelwhat I was asking for, just that I felt in a desperate sense that the self I knew was slipping away. An inability to recognize myself either in my writing or in reflecting upon my own actions was taking over. And then? I didn't care. I wanted to kiss girls. Which is finejust not something I ordinarily do. I wanted to drink, smoke. Again, finebut not something I ordinarily do. "Do I seemokay?" I asked a colleague at work. A woman I barely knew. Insanely, I thought that since she worked with disabled students, many of whom struggled with mental illness, she would know mania when she saw it. This was a rather foolish assumptionespecially since she's an educator, not a psychiatrist, especially with how skilled I am at wearing the mask of calm, the face of sanity. "You seem great, Julie. Cheery. Professional as always." I let her reassurance placate me. Wanted to be placated. Yet, within months I lost my job. And not only that, but a chance at a scholarship, two really important long term friendshipsrelationships I'd enjoyed since high school. I was hospitalized three times between September and February. I lost my ability to trust myself, lost my mind. It is now a little over two years since I first felt that sliding. Twenty-six months since I knew that somewhere in the deepest parts of who I am, I was slipping. Nine seasons since I begged Dr. Poe, "Remember me to myself!" I'm still recuperating. Yes. I have felt like I wasn't me. Why did Julie's relationships with her friends from high school end? - Because of her mental illness. - Because she felt her sense of self slipping away. - not enough information - She lost contact with them.
not enough information

(Question)
Went straight from a facility that deals with homeless children (492 1st Ave, Manhattan, New York) to the extreme outskirts of Queens near Kennedy Airport about 20 miles away. It was winter and I had no coat. I had my book bag and my sole Trader Joe's bag of clothing and was loaded into a van with three social workers. During the long drive in traffic, I fell asleep, so waking up at my new home, I couldn't make out any street signs and the numbering on the houses did not indicate whether I was in a home in the Bronx or Eastern Queens (which share the same street numbering in certain instances). My foster parents showed me my room and left a plate of food on the table. They barricaded themselves in their bedroom quite like how pilots barricade themselves behind the fortified cockpit door. However, my room didn't have a lock, and neither did the bathroom. There were bars on my windows with a view of a church parking lot. I took great care to avoid waking a significantly older teen (I was 14, so he must have been 1920) sleeping on the other bed. I heard two other kids (my foster siblings) in the other room playing music and giggling loudly at 3 in the morning. At 4 in the morning, my foster father started reading the Quran pretty loudly, and then he goes back to bed. In the morning, my foster parents are gone. My foster siblings are all sleeping. I got up at 7, but I don't know how far I am from my high school, what buses/train will take me there, and still don't know anything about anything about my new home. I don't even know the names of those I'm relegated to living with. The unnerving strangeness and disorientation hat comes with knowing that your life has changed and the culture shock that comes with that is so scary and desensitizes you on that first day. How long did the trip take from the homeless facility to Queens outskirts? - less than an hour - not enough information - 6 hours - 14 hours
(Answer)
less than an hour