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f103_9 | f103 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | What does Jan say to God? | Belief_states | [
"Why wasn't he home?",
"Please bring him home!",
"Please let me sleep",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 7 |
f103_10 | f103 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Rob is likely: | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"a hophead",
"in jail",
"laying in an alley"
] | 1 | 5 |
f103_11 | f103 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | How long did Jan probably remain awake after going to bed? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"not long after finding the teddy bear",
"several hours",
"not long after getting up out of bed"
] | 2 | 10 |
f103_12 | f103 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Who fell asleep on the guest bed? | Character_identity | [
"Jan",
"Jan's husband",
"not enough information",
"Rob"
] | 0 | 7 |
f103_13 | f103 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Why was Jan crying? | Causality | [
"because her husband was soundly asleep",
"because she hasn't slept well",
"because she was worried about her son",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f103_14 | f103 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | How long has Rob probably been gone? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"two weeks",
"half an hour",
"a few days"
] | 3 | 6 |
f103_15 | f103 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Rob was addicted to: | Unanswerable | [
"oxycodone",
"sleep",
"alcohol",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 6 |
f103_16 | f103 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | Who was Jan belived to talk too? | Belief_states | [
"her husband",
"the teddy bear",
"God",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 9 |
f103_17 | f103 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Hon? You still awake?"
Quiet.
Jan pulled herself out of the bed and stood up, looking around the dark room for anything. She needed something, something that she could grab onto, and hold, hold until it hurt, hold until blood made racing red lines down her arms, until her hands were raw. She left the room and walked quietly into the now guest room that had been Rob's. Opening the closet, she found the teddy bear that Rob had once confided in and held it in her arms tight as she slumped down on the bed. A quiet sobbing rang through the house accompanied only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room every fifteen minutes. As Jan lay on the guest room bed she soon resorted to deep gasps, knowing that meager tears would never be forceful enough to express her worry to those that listened. "Just bring him home, bring him home, bring him home," she mumbled over and over, each time changing the tone slightly in a desperate attempt to make her pleading sound more real.
She could hear the occasional snore of her husband and she hated him for it. What kind of person could find sleep at a time like this? Why wasn't he awake worrying? Why wasn't he with her? Her thoughts became dark like blood, evil little monsters eating at her sanity. If her son was crazy and not just a drug addict she could see how easy it was to fall over the line. "Please God, please God, please God, please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob, Please Rob." Soon, a sleep came but it was peppered with demons. And as the sliver of sun peeked through the window, she held her false self-control tight and said little. | What happened after Jan entered the guest room? | Temporal_order | [
"she fell asleep",
"she found a teddy bear",
"she looked out the window",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 9 |
f104_0 | f104 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | where where they living? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"in a house",
"with Ben",
"in a condo"
] | 3 | 5 |
f104_1 | f104 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | Who thinks the letter is too harsh? | Character_identity | [
"Allison",
"Mack",
"Jan",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 9 |
f104_2 | f104 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | How did their son meet Mack and Allison? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"At their house",
"At work",
"Through friends"
] | 0 | 6 |
f104_3 | f104 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | After the story their son: | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"moved in with Ben",
"was forsed to stop using drugs",
"decided to move in with Allison"
] | 2 | 5 |
f104_4 | f104 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | How long has their son probably been doing drugs? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"Seven years",
"Two years",
"For a few weeks"
] | 3 | 7 |
f104_5 | f104 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | Where is the son living? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"In a townhouse",
"In a condo",
"In an apartment"
] | 2 | 5 |
f104_6 | f104 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | How long had the son been likely using drugs? | Event_duration | [
"several months",
"not enough information",
"a few days",
"many years"
] | 0 | 7 |
f104_7 | f104 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | Why was someone sickened? | Causality | [
"because their son was an addict",
"because the letter was harsh",
"not enough information",
"because of pipes and books laying around"
] | 3 | 5 |
f104_8 | f104 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | What did Jan think | Belief_states | [
"that things would be worse",
"that they should not wait",
"not enough information",
"that they were being harsh"
] | 3 | 5 |
f104_9 | f104 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | what don't the parents understand? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"what they have done wrong",
"why he is smoking weed",
"how the son feels inside"
] | 0 | 5 |
f104_10 | f104 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | How does Bob feel about marijuana? | Belief_states | [
"He thinks it's no good",
"He thinks it is for older people",
"He thinks it is good",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 7 |
f104_11 | f104 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | Right after the end of this tex, Jan feels: | Subsequent_state | [
"Happy",
"not enough information",
"Hopefull",
"Excited"
] | 2 | 7 |
f104_12 | f104 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | Who chooses to live rent free? | Character_identity | [
"Ben",
"not enough information",
"Janine",
"Their son"
] | 3 | 10 |
f104_13 | f104 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | What will the parents probably do if their son does not stop doing drugs? | Entity_properties | [
"Send him to a family member",
"Disown him as their son",
"Kick him out of their condo",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 12 |
f104_14 | f104 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | When were the parents harsh? | Temporal_order | [
"when writing the letter",
"when kicking him out",
"not enough information",
"when talking to their son"
] | 0 | 5 |
f104_15 | f104 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | Why are Bob and Jan mad at their son? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"He is hanging out with older people",
"He is not paying rent",
"He is doing drugs"
] | 3 | 6 |
f104_16 | f104 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | What did the parents used to probably do? | Entity_properties | [
"They smoked drugs as well",
"not enough information",
"they used to drink a lot",
"they lied to the children"
] | 0 | 8 |
f104_17 | f104 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | "Maybe we're being too harsh with the letter," said Janine.
"Hon, as his parents we have a responsibility to his well being," said Bob.
"I know but I just think he doesn't need this added pressure."
"Jan, I'll be damned if I'm gonna support and house a drug addict."
"I just think maybe he's going through tough times or something. He told me the other day he wanted to see a therapist."
"Hmm."
"Maybe there's something going on we don't understand. I mean didn't he seem a little paranoid to you today at lunch?"
"Paranoia is a side-effect of the marijuana."
"Well I still think we are being a little harsh, I mean, we can't just throw our son out on the street."
"Babe, its our job to be harsh when it comes to this kind of stuff. It's for his own good. Either he chooses to keep living rent free in the condo without the pot or he chooses to ruin his life."
"I know but don't you think we should let this little phase run its course? I mean, we're not entirely innocent ourselves. Eventually he's gonna want to stop smoking pot,"
"I don't know if he is, Jan. He's expressed to me several times that he has no interest in quitting."
"He's said that to me too."
"Well I think that's a pretty big red flag, don't you?"
"Yes."
"He needs to get his priorities in order and realize that drugs aren't gonna do him any good. If we have to force him to do that then that's what has to be done. I mean, tell me you haven't had any difficulty falling asleep at night with the notion that our sons are drug addicts."
"Well at least Ben has a job and is paying his own rent."
"I know but those people he hangs out with, Mack and Allison, those dopers that spend their time smoking weed, they...they're our age, and did you see their house, the stacks of books and newspapers and the marijuana pipes laying on the coffee table? It sickens me that there are people out there like that." | What happened before they were writing a letter? | Temporal_order | [
"Jan went shopping",
"They had lunch with Bob",
"Ben got a new condo",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 10 |
f105_0 | f105 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | whose eyes darted from color to color? | Character_identity | [
"an alien's",
"a robot's",
"not enough information",
"the narrator"
] | 3 | 7 |
f105_1 | f105 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Where does the author leave before shuffling into the city? | Temporal_order | [
"Boston",
"not enough information",
"the ocean",
"the train depot"
] | 3 | 10 |
f105_2 | f105 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Who is the author looking for? | Character_identity | [
"Kim",
"a ghost",
"an alien",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f105_3 | f105 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | How long the narrator was probably looking for Kim? | Event_duration | [
"Few hours",
"Few dys",
"not enough information",
"Few years"
] | 0 | 8 |
f105_4 | f105 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | The narrator believes that | Belief_states | [
"Kim gave all her details without question",
"not enough information",
"Kim wouldn't list herself in a phone book",
"Kim was mean"
] | 2 | 5 |
f105_5 | f105 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | What is probably true about the narrator? | Entity_properties | [
"He is looking for a job",
"He wants to find Kim's phone number",
"not enough information",
"He loves walking around the town"
] | 1 | 8 |
f105_6 | f105 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Immediately after the end of this text | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"He continued to follow green",
"He continued to follow red",
"He continued to follow blue"
] | 2 | 6 |
f105_7 | f105 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | When did his feet get covered in blisters? | Temporal_order | [
"When he took his first step",
"not enough information",
"After walking for so long",
"Before he started walking"
] | 2 | 8 |
f105_8 | f105 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Who is Kim? | Unanswerable | [
"the author's relative",
"the author's Boston coworker",
"not enough information",
"the author's love interest"
] | 2 | 5 |
f105_9 | f105 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Why was the air cool and prepped with moisture? | Causality | [
"He was close to the ocean",
"A storm was coming",
"It just rained",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 8 |
f105_10 | f105 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Who probably made it to Boston first? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"the aliens",
"Kim",
"the narrator"
] | 2 | 7 |
f105_11 | f105 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | What does the author find after leaving the train station? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"a library",
"a plant",
"a pay phone"
] | 3 | 9 |
f105_12 | f105 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | What city does the author say has a slower feel? | Belief_states | [
"Boston",
"New York",
"not enough information",
"Mars"
] | 0 | 9 |
f105_13 | f105 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Why was the author moving slowly? | Causality | [
"His feet were hurting with blisters",
"Kim said so",
"It was too hot",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 6 |
f105_14 | f105 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | The narrator stopped at benches because | Subsequent_state | [
"He was waiting for the bus",
"not enough information",
"He was extremely tired",
"They were taking pictures"
] | 2 | 6 |
f105_15 | f105 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | What kind of noise was the pay phone making? | Factual | [
"A woman's voice",
"not enough information",
"A beeping noise",
"It didn't make noise"
] | 3 | 6 |
f105_16 | f105 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | How long did it probably take for the author to find the phonebook? | Event_duration | [
"a week",
"a few minutes",
"not enough information",
"2 days"
] | 1 | 10 |
f105_17 | f105 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The city was gray but the buildings contrasted with dirt red. The morning settled my nerves a bit more and before long the train pulled into the station. Boston had a slower feel, much slower than New York. The air was cool and peppered with moisture. I knew I was close to the ocean. Vision blurry, I wobbled out of the train depot and thought about the fact that I had never really done anything crazy in my life.
The colors meant something here. Green was the color of plants but it was also the color of money. Plants were good but money was bad. I didn't know what green meant. Blue and red were clear though. Blue was the color of ocean and sky, both good things. Red was the color of Mars and it was manly but mars meant aliens and aliens were bad so red was bad. This is how I navigated. I followed the colors.
I was lost in a daze of exhaustion and moved my feet slowly. They were dead and raw with pain and blisters, and I shuffled out into the city.
My eyes darted from color to color, sign to sign, connection to connection. I floated like a ghost and thought about crying. There were few people out so I found a relative ease in that but my mind still jumped around reckless. I needed to find Kim.
I saw a silent pay phone with a dangling phonebook and headed towards it until I remembered that phone books don't normally list cell phones. Kim wasn't the type of girl to list herself in the phonebook either. I had no leads but I knew I could go to a library and maybe find out her number if she had listed it on Facebook, so I kept walking. Stopping at benches, I would rest until I could muster more energy. | Who is Kim? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"His sister",
"His best friend in Boston",
"His ex wife"
] | 0 | 5 |
f106_0 | f106 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | At the end of the story, we can conclude the narrator was placed in there by: | Subsequent_state | [
"His parents",
"His friends",
"not enough information",
"The attendants"
] | 0 | 10 |
f106_1 | f106 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | Why did the narrator sign the papers? | Causality | [
"He knew it was the only way out",
"not enough information",
"So he could go to sleep",
"So they could experience a life unhindered by limitations"
] | 0 | 6 |
f106_2 | f106 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | When did the speaker sign the papers? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"before the observation",
"after the observation",
"during the observation"
] | 1 | 6 |
f106_3 | f106 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | The narrator is most likely in: | Entity_properties | [
"A jail",
"A mental health facility",
"not enough information",
"A sleep clinic"
] | 1 | 6 |
f106_4 | f106 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | What was placed on the windows? | Factual | [
"Plastic pillows",
"Plastic sheets",
"Bars",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 8 |
f106_5 | f106 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | What the narrator thinks about the 72 hour hold? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"His parents will be there",
"It is the only way out",
"It is too long"
] | 2 | 8 |
f106_6 | f106 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | What does the narrator believe might be true? | Belief_states | [
"He would never get out",
"not enough information",
"He might be crazy",
"They could sleep"
] | 2 | 10 |
f106_7 | f106 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | When would the narrator be released from the hold? | Temporal_order | [
"Never",
"not enough information",
"Eight to ten hours",
"After seventy-two hours"
] | 3 | 8 |
f106_8 | f106 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | Who might have been forming judgments about the speaker? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"patients",
"attendents",
"doctors"
] | 2 | 10 |
f106_9 | f106 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | Right after the end of this text, narrator | Subsequent_state | [
"not enough information",
"frastrated",
"feels relived",
"goes to art therapy"
] | 1 | 7 |
f106_10 | f106 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | The narrator is: | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"A man",
"An animal",
"A woman"
] | 0 | 4 |
f106_11 | f106 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | What will happen after the 72 hour observation is completed? | Unanswerable | [
"the speaker will have to stay an extra few days",
"not enough information",
"the speaker must stay in a halfway house",
"the speaker will be released to parents"
] | 1 | 10 |
f106_12 | f106 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | How long is the narrator likely to write each day: | Event_duration | [
"He does not like writing",
"few hours",
"few minutes",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 10 |
f106_13 | f106 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | How long would the speaker most likely stay in the hospital? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"72 hours",
"less than 72 hours",
"more than 72 hours"
] | 3 | 7 |
f106_14 | f106 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | Who does the narrator hate? | Character_identity | [
"himself",
"not enough information",
"His parents",
"The doctors"
] | 2 | 5 |
f106_15 | f106 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | Why did the speaker use the legal pad? | Causality | [
"for the art class",
"to express frustration",
"to write to his parents",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 6 |
f106_16 | f106 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | What did the speaker do instead of sleeping? | Factual | [
"write",
"eat",
"not enough information",
"watch TV"
] | 0 | 6 |
f106_17 | f106 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Mike Hedrick",
"title": "Connections",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/hedrickmother10connections/0.html"
} | The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. | What is likely the reason for the bars on the window? | Entity_properties | [
"to assist with standing",
"not enough information",
"to stop people from escaping",
"to hold documents and books"
] | 2 | 10 |
f107_0 | f107 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | What does the narrator think about Luna? | Belief_states | [
"she is guly",
"she is gullible",
"she is unintelligent",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 7 |
f107_1 | f107 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | How does the narrator feel about Rick? | Subsequent_state | [
"He thinks Rick is a reckless person",
"He feels Rick is a dishonest person",
"not enough information",
"He is green with envy"
] | 3 | 7 |
f107_2 | f107 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | The narrator parked at Rick's house: | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"before talking to Rick's assistant",
"while talking to Rick's assistant",
"after talking to Rick's assistant"
] | 1 | 7 |
f107_3 | f107 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | Who is Dingo? | Unanswerable | [
"det-away driver",
"Rick's ex-boyfriend",
"Luna's friend",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 5 |
f107_4 | f107 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | How long did the narrator wait for Luna to open the door? | Causality | [
"a couple of hours",
"immediately; no wait",
"not enough information",
"A couple of minutes"
] | 3 | 10 |
f107_5 | f107 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | What did Dingo think of Luna? | Factual | [
"He thought she was pretty",
"He thought she was quite rude",
"not enough information",
"He thought she was an exotic bird"
] | 0 | 7 |
f107_6 | f107 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | Rufgt after Luna opens a door to Rick's house, the narrator | Subsequent_state | [
"thinks she has a terrible sailor mouth",
"not enough information",
"hates what she says",
"thinks she tries to hard to sound intelligent"
] | 2 | 9 |
f107_7 | f107 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | What is probably true about the narrator? | Entity_properties | [
"He can't handle other people's success",
"He is a doctor",
"He finds Luna nice",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 8 |
f107_8 | f107 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | What is a likely reason for Rick to pick a place so out of the way? | Entity_properties | [
"Rick doesn't like people.",
"He needs to space when he's done playing.",
"not enough information",
"He wants to be a hermit."
] | 3 | 13 |
f107_9 | f107 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | Who was gorgeous by some standards? | Character_identity | [
"Dina",
"Rick",
"Luna",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 7 |
f107_10 | f107 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | How long is probably a drive to Rick's house? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"30 minutes",
"4 hours",
"5 minutes"
] | 1 | 8 |
f107_11 | f107 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | When did the drive to Ricks place make him sick? | Temporal_order | [
"While driving slow down the hill",
"not enough information",
"After inhaling all the smog",
"After driving too fast up the hills"
] | 3 | 7 |
f107_12 | f107 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | What did Luna look like? | Factual | [
"homely",
"ugly",
"beautiful",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 6 |
f107_13 | f107 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | How long does it take to get to Ricks place? | Event_duration | [
"Several hours",
"10 minutes only!",
"not enough information",
"about two days, curling around the mountain"
] | 0 | 10 |
f107_14 | f107 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | Dingo thinks that: | Belief_states | [
"It would be nice to go see Luna.",
"The speed Dingo drives up the hill makes him enjoy the ride even more",
"Going to Rick's house is a pain",
"not enough information"
] | 2 | 5 |
f107_15 | f107 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | Who was the narrator going to see at the house? | Character_identity | [
"Rick'a assistant",
"Rick",
"not enough information",
"Luna"
] | 1 | 10 |
f107_16 | f107 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | Who is Rick? | Unanswerable | [
"Dingo's brother.",
"Luna's best friend",
"not enough information",
"manager of the banf"
] | 2 | 5 |
f107_17 | f107 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there.
I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray.
I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value.
I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened.
"Dingo."
"Hey, Luna."
Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage.
She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. | Why was Luna at Rick's? | Causality | [
"She was at Rick's to damage the house.",
"She was there to throw a party.",
"not enough information",
"She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed."
] | 3 | 6 |
f108_0 | f108 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Why did the narrator put gas in the car? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"Because he liked talking to Jack.",
"Because his gas tank was empty.",
"Because Luna told him to."
] | 2 | 7 |
f108_1 | f108 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Who worked at the service station? | Character_identity | [
"Jack",
"not enough information",
"Luna",
"The narrator"
] | 0 | 7 |
f108_2 | f108 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | What kind of effect does the narrator believe the heat could have on a person? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"A positive effect.",
"A negative effect.",
"No effect."
] | 2 | 11 |
f108_3 | f108 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Why did the narrator wrap his shirt around the gas pump? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"Because it was slicked with olive oil",
"Because the distance looked unstable",
"To keep his skin from burning"
] | 3 | 7 |
f108_4 | f108 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Where did Jack work? | Factual | [
"At the service station",
"For the map company",
"Nowhere",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 5 |
f108_5 | f108 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Who is Luna? | Unanswerable | [
"The narrator's girlfriend",
"The narrator's sister",
"The narrator's mom",
"not enough information"
] | 3 | 5 |
f108_6 | f108 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Where will the narrator go next? | Subsequent_state | [
"He will keep driving in the same direction.",
"He will backtrack 80 miles.",
"He will stay with Jack.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 6 |
f108_7 | f108 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | What kind of person is Jack likely to be? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"He is friendly.",
"He is grumpy.",
"He is outgoing."
] | 2 | 8 |
f108_8 | f108 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | What is probably true about Jack? | Entity_properties | [
"He worked there for several years",
"not enough information",
"He lived at the service station",
"He lived alone"
] | 3 | 8 |
f108_9 | f108 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Immediately after the end of this story: | Subsequent_state | [
"The narrator will continue driving",
"The narrator will get gas",
"not enough information",
"Jack left the service station"
] | 0 | 6 |
f108_10 | f108 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Who was wearing coveralls? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"The narrator",
"Luna",
"Jack"
] | 3 | 7 |
f108_11 | f108 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | Where is the narrator? | Factual | [
"At a gas station in the desert.",
"At Luna's house.",
"not enough information",
"At his mother's house."
] | 0 | 5 |
f108_12 | f108 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | When did the narrator walk over to the man? | Temporal_order | [
"Before he stepped out of the jeep",
"Before he pulled out the map",
"not enough information",
"After he topped off the tank"
] | 3 | 8 |
f108_13 | f108 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | How long is likely backtracjing would take? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"10 minutes",
"7 hours",
"two hours"
] | 3 | 9 |
f108_14 | f108 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | How long has the narrator been driving in the wrong direction? | Event_duration | [
"A few minutes.",
"About an hour.",
"A few hours.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 | 8 |
f108_15 | f108 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | What did the narrator believe? | Belief_states | [
"He was lost",
"The man didn't work at the gas station",
"It wasn't his momma's car",
"not enough information"
] | 0 | 5 |
f108_16 | f108 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | When did the narrator pay Jack? | Temporal_order | [
"After talking about his mom.",
"Before pumping the gas.",
"not enough information",
"After pumping the gas."
] | 3 | 6 |
f108_17 | f108 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | What kind of car does Jack own? | Unanswerable | [
"A Chevy Silverado.",
"A Ford Ranger.",
"not enough information",
"A Ford Pinto."
] | 2 | 6 |
f108_18 | f108 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Michael Alan Nelson",
"title": "Dingo",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/nelsonmother08dingo/0.html"
} | I was lost.
As I sat parked at the old service station, I pulled out the maps and tried to do a little backtracking. It didn't take me long to figure out where I had made the wrong turn. I had tried following my memory instead of Luna's directions and wound up about eighty miles off course. My gas tank was pushing 'E' but fortunately the service station was open.
When I stepped out of my Jeep, I could feel the soles of my boots melt on the asphalt. The heat coming off the cracked and pitted cement peeled off in waves that rolled out in every endless direction. The barren mountains in the distance looked unstable, like I was looking at them through a window pane slicked with olive oil.
I slogged my way over to the gas pump and wrapped my shirt around the handle to keep my skin from burning against the desert-baked metal. The heat was so great I worried the fumes would ignite.
A dirty round man stood in the shadowy doorway of the ramshackle service station and stared at me while he rubbed his hands inside an oily red rag. The oval name-patch stitched to his coveralls was loose at one end and curled like a leaf in the heat. His name was Jack.
I topped off the tank and then walked over to him. "You work here?" I knew it was a stupid question the second it left my mouth. He and I were the only living things for fifty miles in any direction. Who the hell else would be working here?
"Who the hell else would be working here?" he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled out my wallet. Jack wobbled inside behind a glass counter filled with everything from belt buckles to oil funnels. "That your momma's car?" he asked.
It's impossible to tell what kind of psychological impact this heat would have on a man who lived out here alone, but I was sure it wasn't positive. | When did the individual got to the gas station? | Temporal_order | [
"Before he did not follow Luna's directions.",
"not enough information",
"When his gas tank was pushing \"F\".",
"After he made the wrong turn and got low on gas."
] | 3 | 7 |