In this task, you're given an article and an answer. Your task is to generate the question for the answer based on the given article.

Article: China is a land of bicycles. At least it was back in 1992 when I traveled the country. Back then everyone seemed to be riding a bicycle. Millions of them, all black. Cars were rare. Yet since my arrival in Beijing last year, I've found the opposite is true. There are millions of cars. However, people still use their bicycles to get around. For many, it's the easiest and cheapest way to travel today. Bicycles also come in different colors---silver, green, red, blue, yellow, whatever you want. It's fun watching people biking. They rush quickly through crossroads, move skillfully through traffic, and ride even on sidewalks . Bicycles allow people the freedom to move about that cars just can't provide. Eager to be part of this aspect of Chinese culture, I decided to buy a bicycle. Great weather accompanied my great buy. I immediately jumped up on my bicycle seat and started home. My first ride home was orderly . To be safe, I stayed with a "pack" of bikers while cars on the streets came running swiftly out of nowhere at times. I didn't want to get hit. So I took the ride carefully. Crossing the streets was the biggest problem. It was a lot like crossing a major highway back in the United States. The streets here were wide, so crossing took time, skill and a little bit of luck. I finally made it home. The feeling on the bicycle was amazing. The air hitting my face and going through my hair was wonderful. I was sitting on top of the world as I passed by places and people. Biking made me feel alive.
Answer: Because they are convenient and inexpensive.
According to the author, why are bicycles still popular in China today?

Article: The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names are only superficial things, floats on the surface of the water, and we share deeper connections than that. That is why she fascinates me--why I spend my off-duty time sitting beside her. Today is difficult. The ward is full of patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again. "Hello, Jasmine," I say, as if greeting myself. She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep. She has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I choose my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be. "I have little time today," I tell her, touching her hair. With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda , all of them. Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it. "Your father may be here soon," I say. "Last week he said he would come." Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps. It is two months since the incident on her father's fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter's body. "Jasmine," I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it. Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting s. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word--then sank again, this time into coma. Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said. When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man. Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one. I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished. I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the seagulls. "Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can't you hear it calling?" Nothing. The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine's father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me. Even in death, my own child had my father's smile, and Jasmine's will have this man's. I know it. He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine's eyelids, waiting for her to bite.
Answer: Jasmine's father is very pitiful.
Why does the author show special sympathy for Jasmine?

Article: Wide awake in Aunt Bet's Southern house, Annie Van Lew shivered at the sounds of distant guns. It was bad enough that America was at war, but the young Virginia girl was not used to battles being fought this close. _ .Annie sat up in bed and listened.Had a stranger broken in? Earlier, the family had heard that captured officers recently escaped from a prison nearby. Quietly opening her bedroom door, Annie walked out. A figure in a black gown was walking down the hall. It was Aunt Bet, carrying a candle in one hand and a plate of fried chicken in the other. Annie followed her aunt to a stairway at the far end of the house. Aunt Bet climbed to the top, and opened a door leading to the attic . Annie followed closely behind. In the attic, Aunt Bet stopped at a chest of drawers, moved it aside, and felt along the wall behind it. Slowly a door sprang open, revealing a hidden room. A thin man stepped out of the opening. As Aunt Bet handed him the plate of food, the young man saw Annie in the doorway and froze. Desperately shaking her head "no", the girl raised one finger to her lips. The officer understood and shifted his look. Quickly Annie went back downstairs and hid, waiting until after Aunt Bet left to return. Back inside the attic,Annie called softly to the man inside, who told her where to find the hidden spring. Soon the young officer stood in the open doorway. A small candle burned on a table behind him and, in its soft light, Annie studied his face. Clear eyes reflected the calm of one who faced death bravely. Smiling, he said,"What trouble you should have gotten into if your aunt had turned around!" That night, Annie learned Aunt Bet was one of many daring Southerners whose hatred of slavery drove them to risk their lives by spying for the North. The girl chatted as she dared, wishing her new friend luck when he said he would leave at dawn. Back in her room, Annie felt proud and was determined to guard her family's secret to the end.
Answer: So Aunt Bet would not know she was there
Why did the officer look away when Annie put her finger to her lips?