Back at their house by the cemetery, Paul and Chloe found Bee in her room, what Paul referred to as her sanctum sanctorum - although no one else ever got the joke, and he refused to explain the comic book reference. As always, lighting was minimal (as opposed to Bee's workshop out behind the house, which was flooded with fluorescents). A bank of TV sets and computer monitors covered one whole wall, arranged on a precarious system of metal shelves that Bee had installed herself. A low, flat coffee table squatted below the glowing displays, supporting three keyboards, a bank of video editing tools and four different phone carriages. Bee sat in her accustomed place - in the midst of a pile of cushions on the floor, fiddling with a mouse in one hand and typing on one of the keyboards while she talked quietly into her headset. Paul and Chloe didn't bother to knock as they came in - Bee already knew they were there. Paul glanced at one of the screens mounted on the wall. Its display, divided into four quadrants, showed various images from inside the house, including the front door they'd just come through and the stairs they'd just climbed. The screen next to it - which Paul himself had salvaged from a bar on Duval that'd recently renovated into a finedining restaurant - showed images from four other cameras that covered the house's exterior. Nothing happened within fifty yards of their Crew's house that Bee didn't see, and if she had her way, that omniscience would soon extend to cover the entire island. "So, Bee, how goes Project Big Brother?" Paul asked. "I wish you wouldn't call it that," she replied. "Sorry, but I have to call it something." "You could call it something nice. Big Brother sounds so mean." "What's mean about a reality show?" said Paul, joking. "What isn't bad about a reality show?" countered Chloe, stepping in to defend her friend. According to the above context, choose the correct option to answer the following question. Question: What is the crew probably doing? Options: - Going on vacation - not enough information - Looking for jobs - Hiding out
Hiding out

I had something that might have been a little supernatural. So I was trying to sleep one time, and I sleep under the blankets 99% of the time. I sleep downstairs, so hearing noise is pretty normal. Also, my door doesn't lock, or even latch the door handle, so you can just push it open. So I was laying down, maybe at 60% in terms of how close I was to falling asleep, so I just had to lay down for like 5 more minutes. But there are a lot of noises, and they freak me out even though I just sorta pretend that they're definitely a cat or my dog or something. So, I'm already slightly spooked, but I'm ignoring it and going to sleep anyway. But then, I hear my door open. That isn't too weird, I do have cats, so even though by this point my fear is intense, I just sorta blow it off and keep trying to sleep. And then, something that's never happened in a situation like this, I feel something moving towards me on my bed. It feels like a cats movements, with light feet making slight reverberations on the bed. So my fear goes away entirely, and I'm like "Oh okay, it's just the cat, that's good." And I lift my blankets off my head to let my cat under with me, and because the fear seemed to make the atmosphere under there very hot and tense, and then I look at my bed and there's nothing. So I just pretend nothing happened and go to sleep, but that still sticks with me and even though it's kinda underwhelming I still think it was very strange since I wasn't at the "edge of consciousness" stage of going to sleep, so I feel like the chances I imagined it aren't too high. According to the above context, choose the correct option to answer the following question. Question: What is true about the narrator's living situation? Options: - not enough information - They live in a house that is quite old and in need of repairs. - They live alone in their house. - They have multiple cats living in their house.
not enough information

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." According to the above context, choose the correct option to answer the following question. Question: What color car was the stranger driving? Options: - not enough information - white - green - red
red