When I was 7, I played this computer game where you were "babysitting" and you had to make sure everything was safe for the kids. One of the tasks was that you were supposed to make sure the windows were closed. Well, one game I forgot to close the windows, and these super creepy, red eyes popped in the window like they were looking in at the kids. That literally has made me paranoid about people looking through my windows ever since. When I was 10, I watched an episode of CSI where some guy had a foot fetish and painted his victims toenails before murdering them. Now, something about red toenails just creep me out. I've never been able to shake that episode. When I was 11, a girl in my class told me that she had played the game "Bloody Mary" in her bathroom and explained to me what it was. Ever since then, I literally cannot be in a dark bathroom, and if something happens like the power goes out or something, I instantly close my eyes and get the hell outta there as fast as I can. When I was 15, my boyfriend wanted to take me to "see his grandpa's farm". I legit thought he was taking me to meet his grandpa. Well, turns out, he was just wanted to get me in the middle of nowhere so he could take advantage of me. After he had raped me, I felt like I was smaller than an ant. I felt absolutely trashed. I had always planned on being a virgin until I got married. But he took that from me. On the way back home, we drove over this bridge. I remember driving over this bridge thinking that I was totally worthless. Now, almost 10 years later, every time I drive over that bridge, I get horrible flashbacks and avoid it at all cost. Question: What happened to the writer when they were playing a video game? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- They didn't play the video game correctly.
- They saw something scary in the video game.
- not enough information
- They forgot to close the window during the game and saw a pair of red eyes.
They forgot to close the window during the game and saw a pair of red eyes.

Pirate gold. Coins, rings, ingots. Necklaces of emeralds and opals and sapphires. Chalices, bracelets, daggers inlaid with diamonds and lapis and ivory. Malone rolled over in the soft hotel bed. Not just gold but the things it would buy. A two-story house of brick and wrought iron. Greek columns in front and coaches parked in the drive. Built high on the center of Galveston Island, away from the deadly storms of the Gulf, away from the noise and stink of the port. White servants and negro slaves. Fair-haired women to sit at the piano in his parlor. Dark-skinned women to open their legs to him in the secrecy of the night... He sat up in a sweat. I will think no evil thoughts, he told himself. Outside, the sun rose over New Orleans. Horse-drawn carts creaked and rattled through the streets, and chickens complained about the light. The smell of the Mississippi, damp and sexual, floated through the open window. Malone got up and put a robe on over his nightshirt, despite the heat. He turned up the gas lamp over the desk, took out pen, ink and paper, and began to write. 'My dearest Becky...' * He smelled the French Market before he saw it, a mixture of decayed fruit, coffee, and leather. He crossed Decatur Street to avoid a side of beef hung over the sidewalk, swarming with flies. Voices shouted in a dozen different languages. All manner of decrepit wooden carts stood on the street, their contents passed from hand to hand until they disappeared under the yellow canvas awnings of the market. Beyond the levee Malone could see the tops of the masts of the tall ships that moved toward the Governor Nicholl's Street Wharf. Question: What is most likely true about Malone: === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- He is in love with Becky.
- He is homosexual.
- He is married.

Answer: He is in love with Becky.

He had apparently spaced out for a second or two. When he came to, a large, annoyed woman was leaning in toward him. "Mister? Mister, are you even listening to me?" He looked at the receding rows of fluorescent lights on the struts of the cavernous ceiling, the gleaming linoleum floors, the pallets of sale-priced plastic coolers and Special K and motor oil, and then he looked at the rack of merchandise at his back and understood that he was in a Wal-Mart, behind the returns counter. He heard his own voice saying, as if by reflex, "Do you have your receipt?" * At the first opportunity, he locked himself in a bathroom stall and dug out his wallet. His driver's license showed the right name, birthdate, and photo, but it had been issued by the State of North Carolina, and it listed an address he'd never heard of. He scrubbed his face at the sink. It was him in the mirror, a tanned and healthy 56, hair mostly gray but still all there. He felt groggy, as if he'd woken prematurely. It was only the numbness, he thought, that kept the panic at bay. If he didn't push, he found he knew the answers to some questions. He was due to clock out in an hour. When he left the parking lot he would go under the highway, turn left, and merge. * He found his way to a battered white Toyota pickup in the employee section. The key in his pocket started the engine. He forced himself not to think too hard as he drove, taking the turns that seemed to have a certain inevitability. He wound up on a dirt road near someplace called Pittsboro, in front of a small brick house surrounded by high yellow grass, pines, and live oaks. Question: Why did he seem to involuntarily ask the woman if she had a receipt the moment he came to? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- He collects receipts for a hobby.
- He worked at the Customer Service Dept.
- He wanted her receipt so he could use it to make a return for something he hadn't bought.
- not enough information
He worked at the Customer Service Dept.