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f049_3 | f049 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | After he arrives at the small brick house: | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"he reaches under the driver seat, finds a gun and shoots himself in the head.",
"he finds the other key on his key ring fits the lock to enter the front door.",
"he backs out immediately and starts a drive to Florida."
] | 2 |
f049_4 | f049 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | After leaving the bathroom he is | Subsequent_state | [
"angry",
"not enough information",
"hungry",
"confused"
] | 3 |
f049_5 | f049 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | He probably locked himself in the bathroom for a | Event_duration | [
"couple of seconds",
"5 minutes",
"not enough information",
"60 minutes"
] | 0 |
f049_6 | f049 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | How does he feel about his appearance? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"He looks good for his age: not bald, not sick",
"He has black eyes and no idea how he got them.",
"He avoids looking in the mirror and he isn't sure why."
] | 1 |
f049_7 | f049 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | Where does he work? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"North Carolia Highway Patrol",
"Wal Mart",
"Pep Boys"
] | 2 |
f049_8 | f049 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | What is probably true about him | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"He is 56 yrs old",
"He enjoys working at Walmart",
"He is from North Carolina"
] | 1 |
f049_9 | f049 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | Why did he lock himself in the bathroom | Causality | [
"because he spaced out for a second or two",
"not enough information",
"because he was clocking out",
"because he didn't recognize his driver license's profile"
] | 0 |
f049_10 | f049 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | Where is he from | Unanswerable | [
"Florida",
"not enough information",
"Chicago",
"Seattle"
] | 1 |
f049_11 | f049 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | After he scrubbed his face with water in the sink, what did he do? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"Spaced out",
"Asked the woman for the receipt.",
"Found his way to a battered Toyota pickup in the parking lot."
] | 3 |
f049_12 | f049 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | What was the only fact that was odd when he looked at his driver's license? | Factual | [
"It was in a language he didn't recognize.",
"He didn't recognize the address at all.",
"It was a woman's driver's license and he was for sure a man.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f049_13 | f049 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | What department was he working in | Factual | [
"store room",
"returns customer",
"not enough information",
"cashier"
] | 1 |
f049_14 | f049 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | He drove off in a toyota after | Temporal_order | [
"he left the bathroom",
"not enough information",
"he left work",
"he woke up"
] | 2 |
f049_15 | f049 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | Why did he seem to involuntarily ask the woman if she had a receipt the moment he came to? | Causality | [
"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"
] | 1 |
f049_16 | f049 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | Has he driven the route to the small brick house before? | Entity_properties | [
"He follows a fellow employee who is leaving the parking lot, and that house is where they end up.",
"Since it's automatic, apparently he has countless times.",
"In his wallet he finds directions and he follows those to the small brick house.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f049_17 | f049 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Straws",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07straws/0.html"
} | 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. | Who asked him if he was okay | Belief_states | [
"store manager",
"co-worker",
"not enough information",
"annoyed woman"
] | 3 |
f050_0 | f050 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | What was Stan selling at his shop? | Factual | [
"Movies.",
"not enough information",
"Tea.",
"Gumballs."
] | 3 |
f050_1 | f050 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | What used to be Sheila's job? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"Shop assistant",
"Waitress",
"Psychologist"
] | 0 |
f050_2 | f050 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Before his scheduled IPO, how long had Stan been selling gumballs at the shop? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"One day.",
"Many years",
"Many days."
] | 3 |
f050_3 | f050 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Why was Stan going to a support group? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"Because he was having bizarre dreams.",
"Because of his failing shop.",
"Because he missed Sheila terribly."
] | 3 |
f050_4 | f050 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Sheila came to Stan in a dream: | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"Before Stan opened his shop",
"Before Stan joined the group",
"Before the IPO of Gumballs.com"
] | 3 |
f050_5 | f050 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Who turned into thousands of yellow gumballs? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Stans' brothers",
"Stan",
"Sheila"
] | 3 |
f050_6 | f050 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | What is most likely true about Stan? | Entity_properties | [
"He got a new pet",
"not enough information",
"He is happy Sheila is gone",
"He is good at business"
] | 3 |
f050_7 | f050 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Who was about to kiss when suddenly they were parted? | Character_identity | [
"Sheila and Stan's brother",
"Stan and Sheila",
"not enough information",
"Sheila and the Ant King"
] | 1 |
f050_8 | f050 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Why did Stan join the group in California? | Causality | [
"To give away the yellow gumballs",
"To save Sheila",
"not enough information",
"To accept that Sheila was gone"
] | 3 |
f050_9 | f050 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Where does Stan live? | Unanswerable | [
"San Francisco",
"not enough information",
"San Diego",
"Los Angeles"
] | 1 |
f050_10 | f050 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | How long did Stan most likely love Sheila | Event_duration | [
"Many years",
"Several days",
"A couple of weeks",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f050_11 | f050 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Who said that the Ant King has them? | Belief_states | [
"The people in the support group",
"Sheila",
"not enough information",
"Stan's brothers"
] | 1 |
f050_12 | f050 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | What is probably true about Stan's gumball shop? | Entity_properties | [
"Stan ran it all by himself.",
"not enough information",
"Stan did not really want to open the shop.",
"Stan was feeling worse and worse working there all day."
] | 0 |
f050_13 | f050 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | Stan believes that: | Belief_states | [
"Sheila is gone forever.",
"not enough information",
"Capitalism is bad.",
"He does not understand himself at all."
] | 0 |
f050_14 | f050 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | When did Stan dream about Sheila? | Temporal_order | [
"Before he went to the support group.",
"not enough information",
"After he opened the gumball shop",
"Before he opened the gumball shop."
] | 2 |
f050_15 | f050 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | What did Stan sell in his new shop? | Factual | [
"yellow gum",
"gumballs",
"not enough information",
"Yellow hankercheifs"
] | 1 |
f050_16 | f050 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | At the end of the story, what was Stan doing? | Subsequent_state | [
"Closing the gumball store.",
"Dreaming",
"not enough information",
"Shooting himself."
] | 1 |
f050_17 | f050 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Benjamin Rosenbaum",
"title": "The Ant King: A California Fairy Tale",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/rosenbaumbother06antking/0.html"
} | Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs.
Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California.
After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila.
On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad.
"Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?"
"The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." | After the story, Stan most likely: | Subsequent_state | [
"Drinks some tea",
"not enough information",
"Tries to rescue Sheila",
"Eats the gumballs"
] | 2 |
f051_0 | f051 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | When will Aya be able to perform magic like Li Reiko? | Unanswerable | [
"Two years after the events in the story",
"not enough information",
"Three years after the events in the story",
"One year after the events in the story"
] | 1 |
f051_1 | f051 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Who scraped his/her knee? | Character_identity | [
"Reiko",
"Aya",
"Nawi",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f051_2 | f051 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | What does Nawi think about Li Reiko's armor and sword? | Belief_states | [
"He is indifferent to them.",
"He wants to be a historian, not a fighter",
"not enough information",
"He is very curious about them."
] | 3 |
f051_3 | f051 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Reiko showed Nawi her armor: | Temporal_order | [
"before healing his knee",
"not enough information",
"right away when Nawi asked",
"after healing his knee"
] | 0 |
f051_4 | f051 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | What was Nawi excited about when he asked "Really?" | Entity_properties | [
"Getting his own armor",
"Being healed by Reiko",
"Seeing his mother's armor",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f051_5 | f051 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Who in the story is traditionally expected to earn magical armor? | Entity_properties | [
"Children of magic users",
"not enough information",
"Men",
"Women"
] | 3 |
f051_6 | f051 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Who does Reiko believe that will never acquire an armor? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Nawi",
"Herself",
"Aya"
] | 1 |
f051_7 | f051 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | What part of Nawi's body hurts? | Factual | [
"His back",
"not enough information",
"His knee",
"His arms"
] | 2 |
f051_8 | f051 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Where does Li Reiko's armor come from? | Factual | [
"She hid it under the paving stones",
"She summons it from her mind",
"not enough information",
"It was behind the trees in the family courtyard"
] | 1 |
f051_9 | f051 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Who summoned the armor from the ether? | Character_identity | [
"Li Reiko",
"Nawi",
"Aya",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f051_10 | f051 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Why did Reiko showed Nawi her armor? | Causality | [
"because Nawi is supposed to learn about it",
"not enough information",
"because he was excited and curious about it",
"because she does that all the time"
] | 2 |
f051_11 | f051 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Reiko's armor was visible for: | Event_duration | [
"a few days",
"a few hours",
"a few moments",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f051_12 | f051 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | When did Li Reiko show Nawi her armor? | Temporal_order | [
"After she healed Nawi's wound.",
"After she showed Nawi her sword. W",
"not enough information",
"Before she healed Nawi's wound."
] | 0 |
f051_13 | f051 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Why can't Nawi never get his armor? | Unanswerable | [
"He is physically ill",
"not enough information",
"He is banned because of something he did",
"Men are not allowed to have armor"
] | 1 |
f051_14 | f051 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | Why did Li Reiko use magic in the story? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"To help Nawi follow his path in life",
"Because Aya nagged her to use magic.",
"To heal Nawi and show him her armor."
] | 3 |
f051_15 | f051 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | After the end of the story, Nawi will most likely do what? | Subsequent_state | [
"learn about the histories that men kept",
"learn to summon armor from the ether",
"learn the healing spell of Li Reiko",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f051_16 | f051 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | After the end of this story, Reiko is: | Subsequent_state | [
"angry",
"not enough information",
"thrilled",
"a little sad"
] | 3 |
f051_17 | f051 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "The Bound Man",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08Bound_Man-MRK/0.html"
} | Light dappled through the trees in the family courtyard, painting shadows on the paving stones. Li Reiko knelt by her son to look at his scraped knee.
"I just scratched it." Nawi squirmed under her hands.
Her daughter, Aya, leaned over her shoulder studying the healing. "Maybe Mama will show you her armor after she heals you."
Nawi stopped wiggling. "Really?"
Reiko shot Aya a warning look, but her little boy's dark eyes shone with excitement. Reiko smiled. "Really." What did tradition matter? "Now let me heal your knee." She laid her hand on the shallow wound.
"Ow."
"Shush." Reiko closed her eyes and rose in the dark space within her mind.
In her mind's eye, Reiko took her time with the ritual, knowing it took less time than it appeared. In a heartbeat, green fire flared out to the walls of her mind. She dissolved into it as she focused on healing her son.
When the wound closed beneath her hand, she sank to the surface of her mind.
"There." She tousled Nawi's hair. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"It tickled." He wrinkled his nose. "Will you show me your armor now?"
She sighed. She should not encourage his interest in the martial arts. His work would be with the histories that men kept, and yet... "Watch."
Pulling the smooth black surface out of the ether, she manifested her armor. It sheathed her like silence in the night. Aya watched with obvious anticipation for the day when she earned her own armor. Nawi's face, full of sharp yearning for something he would never have, cut Reiko's heart like a new blade.
"Can I see your sword?"
She let her armor vanish back into thought. "No." Reiko brushed his hair from his eyes. "It's my turn to hide, right?" | How long does the ritual healing take? | Event_duration | [
"Less than a minute",
"A full day",
"An hour",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f052_0 | f052 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Who examined their hat? | Character_identity | [
"Sandra",
"not enough information",
"Jon",
"Daven"
] | 2 |
f052_1 | f052 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | What city is Daven talking about? | Unanswerable | [
"Milton",
"New York City",
"Boston",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f052_2 | f052 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | What wedding gift remained useful to Jon? | Factual | [
"hat",
"house",
"not enough information",
"horse"
] | 1 |
f052_3 | f052 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Immediately after the end of this text, Jon is: | Subsequent_state | [
"single",
"not enough information",
"divorced",
"married"
] | 3 |
f052_4 | f052 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Who warned Jon about the carriage? | Character_identity | [
"Alasandra",
"not enough information",
"the wind",
"Daven"
] | 3 |
f052_5 | f052 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Who says to get the musket out of the pantry? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Sandra",
"Jon",
"Daven"
] | 1 |
f052_6 | f052 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Daven cried out to his father: | Temporal_order | [
"After running over the hill",
"not enough information",
"Before running over the hill",
"After Jon turned to the house"
] | 0 |
f052_7 | f052 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Where is the carriage from? | Factual | [
"The farm",
"The pantry",
"not enough information",
"The city"
] | 3 |
f052_8 | f052 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Why is Jon sweating? | Causality | [
"hot day",
"hard labor work",
"not enough information",
"he is nervous"
] | 0 |
f052_9 | f052 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | How long was Daven running for? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"A few days",
"A few minutes",
"A few hours"
] | 2 |
f052_10 | f052 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Daven is: | Entity_properties | [
"a worker",
"not enough information",
"Jon's brother",
"Jon's son"
] | 3 |
f052_11 | f052 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Daven had probably left: | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"an hour ago",
"a few hours ago",
"a few minutes ago"
] | 3 |
f052_12 | f052 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Did the approaching carriage worry the family? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"yes",
"didn't matter",
"no"
] | 1 |
f052_13 | f052 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Why is Jon asked for the musket? | Unanswerable | [
"He was fearful of he soldier",
"He wanted to protect his family",
"not enough information",
"He believed the soldier was a threat"
] | 2 |
f052_14 | f052 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | At the end of this text what is the relationship between Jon and the single figure? | Subsequent_state | [
"they are good friends",
"brothers",
"bad",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f052_15 | f052 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Who is Sandra? | Factual | [
"neighbor",
"sister",
"wife",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f052_16 | f052 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Where was the carriage heading too? | Factual | [
"Jon's house",
"passing by",
"into town",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f052_17 | f052 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Why did Jon wiped his forehead? | Causality | [
"He has been running",
"not enough information",
"He was nervous about the carriage",
"He was sweating from his work"
] | 3 |
f052_18 | f052 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Frost had come: | Temporal_order | [
"early this year",
"as expected",
"not enough information",
"late this year"
] | 3 |
f052_19 | f052 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | How would you described Jon? | Entity_properties | [
"A hard worker",
"not enough information",
"Lazy",
"Incompetent"
] | 0 |
f052_20 | f052 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | What is probably true about Jon? | Entity_properties | [
"he is a farmer",
"he does not have a family",
"he works in the city",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f052_21 | f052 | 21 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Who was the single figure who sat on the bench? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"Daven",
"Sandra",
"Jon"
] | 0 |
f052_22 | f052 | 22 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael E. Shea",
"title": "The Gray Wolf",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_gray_wolf/0.html"
} | Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. | Jon is currently: | Entity_properties | [
"Running",
"Divorced",
"Married",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f053_0 | f053 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Who first knocked on the door? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Pete's brother",
"The police",
"Pete"
] | 3 |
f053_1 | f053 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Pete poured the coffee: | Temporal_order | [
"after he knocked on the door",
"not enough information",
"after he told of the latest news",
"before the two police arrived"
] | 0 |
f053_2 | f053 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | After the end of this story, Pete is: | Subsequent_state | [
"selling drugs",
"out of the narrator's office",
"not enough information",
"selling newspapers"
] | 1 |
f053_3 | f053 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | After the end of this excerpt, the police: | Subsequent_state | [
"are drinking coffee",
"are trying to uncover the rest of Preacher's operation",
"not enough information",
"are hanging Preacher"
] | 1 |
f053_4 | f053 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Why were the police at the door? | Causality | [
"They were looking for newspapers.",
"They wanted to ask questions about the Preacher's drug operation.",
"They were looking for drugs.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f053_5 | f053 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | What was notorious all over Texas? | Factual | [
"The Preacher's drug operation",
"The impending trial",
"not enough information",
"The police corruption"
] | 0 |
f053_6 | f053 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Who told the cops about the man's house? | Unanswerable | [
"Pete",
"Preacher",
"not enough information",
"the narrator"
] | 2 |
f053_7 | f053 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Who thinks the police will uncover the whole operation? | Belief_states | [
"Pete's wife",
"not enough information",
"Pete",
"the narrator"
] | 2 |
f053_8 | f053 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | If Pete was involved in the drugs business, why would he run away after the police knocked on the door? | Entity_properties | [
"He thinks the police might mistakenly accuse him",
"He feels guilty",
"He doesn't like cops",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f053_9 | f053 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | What had raged a few months before "they finally got to him"? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"A furor raged in the newspapers",
"Drug arrests",
"Many skipped town"
] | 1 |
f053_10 | f053 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | What did the man drink before Pete arrived? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"something made of alcohol",
"something bitter and dark",
"something made of tea leaves"
] | 2 |
f053_11 | f053 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Who said that it was very "hush-hush"? | Belief_states | [
"The DA",
"Pete McGregor",
"One of the Preacher's men",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f053_12 | f053 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Why did the police come? | Causality | [
"they wanted some coffee",
"someone in the office has the information they need, or is a suspect",
"they knew the narrator",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f053_13 | f053 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | What type of illegal drugs was the Preacher selling? | Unanswerable | [
"Meth",
"Pot",
"Cocaine",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f053_14 | f053 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | The police knocked on the door: | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"After Pete left",
"Before Pete arrived",
"After Pete arrived"
] | 3 |
f053_15 | f053 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Who poured himself a cup of coffee? | Character_identity | [
"A policeman",
"not enough information",
"Pete McGreggor",
"Preacher's errand boy"
] | 2 |
f053_16 | f053 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | Pete's talk before the cops came probably lasted: | Event_duration | [
"a hour",
"a day",
"not enough information",
"a few minutes"
] | 3 |
f053_17 | f053 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Killing Season",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07killing_season/0.html"
} | Overnight the clouds had rolled in and the summer was dead. I sat at my office window and drank coffee, looking out on a dirty brown Saturday that smelled like rain.
Somebody knocked at the door and I swiveled around to see Pete McGreggor from down the hall. "Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and he came in, closing the door behind him. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from me.
"Big shakeup last night," he said. "I just got a call to defend one of the Preacher's errand boys."
"So they finally got to him," I said, remembering the furor that had raged in the newspapers a few months before. The law had never been able to break up the Preacher's drug operation, even though it was notorious as the biggest in Texas. "How'd they do it?"
"It's very hush-hush," he said, steam from his coffee making his hair seem to ripple. "They squelched the story at the papers, hoping to pull in a couple more fish, I guess. But what I gather is that the thing was pulled off from the inside, from somebody high up in the organization. But nobody knows exactly who it was that sold out."
"It'll all come clean at the trial, I suppose."
He nodded. "Sooner than that, I expect. The DA told me confidentially that they'll have everything they need by five o'clock tonight. You'll see it all on the evening news."
A sharp rapping came at the door and Pete stood up.
"You've got business. I'll leave you to it."
"It's probably bill collectors," I said. "I'll yell if they get rough."
He opened the door and pushed past the two policemen that were waiting outside.
They were both in uniform, but I only knew one of them. That was Brady, the tall, curly headed one that looked like an Irish middleweight. His partner was dark and nondescript, sporting a Police Academy moustache. | What is the most likely to be Pete's job? | Entity_properties | [
"Drug dealer",
"Bartender",
"not enough information",
"Lawyer"
] | 3 |
f054_0 | f054 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | After the end of the passage, Marlin most likely: | Subsequent_state | [
"Going to follow the railroad",
"Going to the farm",
"Going to go home",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f054_1 | f054 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | After the end of this story, Marlin is probably: | Subsequent_state | [
"talking to cowboys",
"having another whiskey",
"heading to where Kraamer lives",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f054_2 | f054 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | Why did Marlin check if his gun was easily retrievable? | Causality | [
"Because he was going to have a whiskey",
"not enough information",
"Because he liked his gun",
"Because there could be trouble in the saloon"
] | 3 |
f054_3 | f054 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | Marlin felt like: | Belief_states | [
"The farmers were intelligent",
"not enough information",
"He is too old to look for Kraamer",
"The whiskey was bad"
] | 2 |
f054_4 | f054 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | What did Marlin order at the bar? | Factual | [
"Coffee",
"Beer",
"not enough information",
"Whiskey"
] | 3 |
f054_5 | f054 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | The patrons at the bar where probably there for: | Event_duration | [
"hours",
"not enough information",
"the entire day",
"the time it takes to have breakfast"
] | 0 |
f054_6 | f054 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | Who rode low in the saddle? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Walker",
"Kraamer",
"Marlin"
] | 3 |
f054_7 | f054 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "The Long Ride Out",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07Long_Ride_Out/0.html"
} | The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town.
He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open.
The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom.
Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill.
When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?"
One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth.
Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door.
"Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." | What is likely to be the reason why the farmers had red faces? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"They were playing cards",
"They were working out in the sun",
"They were European"
] | 2 |