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." Question: How did Harnie and the author meet? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- Girlfriend
- Class
- not enough information
- Family

Answer: not enough information

Problem: OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- a day
- a week
- 4 days
Q: It may seem as though the 2020 U.S. presidential election is a long way off. But good luck telling that to President Donald Trump or a dozen or so Democrats contemplating a White House bid two years from now. Trump has already been out on the campaign trail testing themes for his expected re-election bid. "Our new slogan for 2020. Do you know what it is? Keep America great!" Trump told cheering supporters at a recent rally in Elkhart, Indiana. But Trump also made it clear he is concerned about this year's congressional midterm elections, in which opposition Democrats are favored to make gains. "And all of the great momentum that we are having as a country on jobs, on safety, on security, on our military it is all at stake in November," Trump warned at the Indiana rally. 2020 is expected to produce a bumper crop of Democratic presidential contenders who will vie for their party's nomination. Those in the group range from the well-known like former Vice President Joe Biden and 2016 contender Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont to a younger, less recognizable contingent that includes California Senator Kamala Harris and New York Senator Kirsten Gillibrand. Several potential Democratic presidential contenders spoke about the party's future at a recent conference in Washington hosted by the Center for American Progress, a Democratic-leaning public policy institute in Washington. Among the speakers was Massachusetts Senator Elizabeth Warren, who said Democrats face an uphill battle to win back control of Congress this year because of long-standing Republican advantages in winning a majority in the House of Representatives. "We can't climb that hill by ignoring the millions of Americans who are angry and scared about the damage this president and this Republican Party have done to our democracy," Warren told the conference to a round of applause. "We can't ignore it and we shouldn't want to ignore it." Question: How long did the washington conference last? === The answer to the above question is
Answer: a day

input with options: His eyes were open and his head bobbed around at an impossible angle. He was sitting in about forty feet of water, stone dead, one arm pinned between the rocks. As best I could tell, he had been dead when he landed there. The mud and ooze around him were as serene and smooth as he was. The cop who was assisting me swam over and made a palms up gesture. I shrugged back at him and began to work the body loose. The corpse had only one leg, and as I worked I wondered what he had been doing in the lake. I got the arm free and kicked toward the quicksilver surface above me. The body turned bloated and heavy when I broke water with it, and it took three of us to load it into the police launch. I dried off and got a coke out of the cooler. It was getting to be another Texas scorcher, and the sunlight bouncing off the surface of the lake felt like it had needles in it. My mouth was dry from breathing canned air and the carbonation burned like fire. Winslow, from the sheriff's office, sat down next to me. 'I appreciate this, Dan,' he said. 'No problem.' Sam Winslow and I had grown up together about twenty miles outside Austin in a little town called Coupland. We'd fought a lot as kids, and there were still plenty of differences in our politics and educations. But being on the police and fire rescue squad had brought me closer to him again, and I was glad of it. A private detective needs all the friends he can get. 'What do you make of it?' I asked him. 'Accidental drowning, looks like.' I raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. 'He's got a bump on the head that could have come off a rock. We'll see what the coroner says.' 'Any idea who he is?' Winslow shook his head. He'd gained weight in his face recently and his jowls vibrated with the gesture. Question: What was the main character's name? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- Dan
- Winslow
- not enough information
- Sam
output:
Dan