Read this excerpt from "After Twenty Years" by O. Henry

There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.

Which statement best describes how the pacing of this passage affects the story?

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

Which description best explains how the exposition functions in this passage?

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

Which sentence from the passage's exposition best illustrates the function of this part of the story as defined in the previous question.

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

Which statement best describes the effect of the story's complicating incident?

Read the passage:

Secret in Slovakia
After 17 hours of travel, we had finally made it. It was 10 o'clock at night and we were in Slovakia, standing in front of Great-Aunt Gertrude's house, which stood at the end of a long, narrow street and looked to be made of ancient stone. The wind came whistling through the trees that surrounded the house in a way that reminded me of an eerie fairy tale that my grandmother told me when I was a child. In the dark, with its front windows and double arched doors, the house looked as if it were about to eat us. Two days later, when we left, I would look at the house in the daylight and think it was very charming. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to find the inside much less frightening than the outside.
I was in Slovakia with my mother and uncle to prepare Aunt Gertrude's house to be sold. Two years ago, when she became increasingly frail, she had come to the United States to live out her days close to the only family she had--my mother, my uncle, and their families. I had seen Aunt Gertrude more in the past two years than I had ever before in my life, and she could be terrifying, often wearing a mean scowl on her deeply lined face. She never had children of her own and worked as a governess when she was young, and although those children had to be my parents' age by now, I still felt bad for them. My grandmother had come to the United States when she and Gertrude were in their 20s, and Aunt Gertrude rarely spoke about herself, so we knew very little about her adult life.

Although I never felt particularly close to Aunt Gertrude, it was comforting to know she was close by in her last years. And now that she was gone, we were apparently going to discover the secret she had been keeping rom all of us. I'll never forget the last moments before she died. She knew the end was near, and she was saying her goodbye to all of us. Then she turned to my mother, grasped her hand so tight that I saw surprise on my mother's face, and she said "I'm so sorry. you'll find out all about it. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me."

This was not the time to press Aunt Gertrude for details, and just a few minutes later, she died peacefully. Now we were at the house to gather her paperwork and retrieve some personal items that she had left behind. As we crossed the threshold, I realized that my wish about the inside of the house not being frightening would not be coming true. The furniture, all draped in sheets and lit only by the moonlight, looked like ghosts hovering in each room. It was so still we could hear each tick of the grandfather clock as we moved through the house. The three of us walked slowly and quietly down the wide hallway to the kitchen as if we were afraid of waking someone. My uncle turned on a light switch as we walked into the kitchen, and the bulb instantly blew out, sending my mother and me into a momentary panic. We all composed ourselves and made our way to the library. Aunt Gertrude had directed us specifically to this room so that we could gather certain books and other items that she wanted to remain in the family. As we crept into the room, we all noticed it at once. On the desk, there was an old, wooden box with a note on top in Aunt Gertrude's handwriting that read, "Forgive me."

I had never asked my mother or uncle what they thought we might discover at Aunt Gertrude's house because I was certain that they would not know. Aunt Gertrude had always been such a distant, shadowy figure, even when she was living in the United States. Now we were about to find out what she had kept secret for years.

My uncle opened the box and pulled out a stack of old papers. On the top was stationary that looked as if it were about 50 years old; the letterhead had a picture of a building with the words "Bratislava School for Girls." The second paper in the stack was a letter from Aunt Gertrude addressed to the family. In the letter, she explained that she had been bequeathed a large sum of money when she was a young woman by one of the families for whom she had worked. Aunt Gertrude had used it to open a school for orphan girls in the city where she had grown up. As he read the letter, my uncle paused at the end of almost every sentence. It was all so much to take in. Aunt Gertrude explained that she knew many orphans as a child growing up in the city and when she was given this money, she immediately knew what she would do with it.

The letter said that her only fear was that the family would be angry with her for not sharing the money. We all looked at each other in disbelief. A woman we had all feared had sacrificed what could have been a luxurious life in order to help orphans in her homeland, and she had worried that we would be angry about it. A few days later, we returned home with the surprising news about Aunt Gertrude. The news made me regret not knowing her better while she was alive, but at least our family now knows what kind of generous person Aunt Gertrude really was.

How does the author's use of foreshadowing in the opening paragraphs affect the passage?

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

Why does the author use the first-person point of view in this story?

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

Which evidence from the story shows the impact of the first-person narrator as described in the previous question?

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

How does the complicating incident function in this story?

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

How does the author make this story more compelling for the reader?

A Modern Love Letter

I am such a voracious reader that my mother has remarked, “Isabella Sanchez, you’d read anything, including the dictionary!” Of course I’ve perused the occasional dictionary, but I much prefer the gripping suspense of mystery novels. And though I don’t like to gloat, I must admit that I usually solve the mystery before the fictional detective synthesizes the clues into a plausible theory. Strolling home from the library with yet another satchel full of paperbacks, I lament that nothing in my life exhilarates me as much as unraveling intricate mysteries. When ominous clouds obscure the sun and lightning electrifies the atmosphere, I imagine my favorite literary detective rubbing her hands together, anticipating her latest case, and saying, “Oh, what a dark and eerie afternoon!” Then I remember that here in Hialeah, Florida, tropical thunderstorms occur daily and mysteries are as rare as a dry day. As it begins to sprinkle, I sprint the last few blocks home.

I reach the front porch just in time to avoid the deluge and, gasping for breath, inhale the mouthwatering aroma of ropa vieja wafting through the open windows; Abuela María is cooking my favorite meal from her native Cuba—a savory concoction of stewed beef and vegetables. When I open the screen door, a small, cream-colored envelope tumbles to the ground. I bend to retrieve it, surprised to see “My Bella” scrawled ornately across the front. Lots of people call me Bella but “my Bella”? Donning my detective’s cap, I consider that this might be a prank and scan my surroundings surreptitiously but spy no onlookers. Still, I step inside before carefully opening the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, old-fashioned stationery—the kind I’ve seen only in my abuela’s antique desk. There on the creamy page, written in the same script, is the message, “I’ve finally found you!”

I have no clue what the letter means or who might have written it. No one handwrites letters anymore, except for my abuela; even my mom texts or e-mails her friends. So who could have composed this, going to the trouble of writing a letter—in cursive, no less—and hand delivering it? Perhaps Graciela, my best friend, is having fun at my expense, but I doubt it; she is rather humorless. I flush as I realize that someone may actually admire me from afar, and my mind immediately conjures an image of shy, bookish Mateo, who works at the library, where I see him frequently. Just recently he smiled at me, and I ponder whether he’s working up the courage to talk to me, penning a letter as a more comfortable, more romantic means of expressing his feelings. I need additional clues to solve this mystery, so I conceal the note in my bag until I can study it secretly.

The following day, I hasten to the library with a singular objective: to collect a sample of Mateo’s handwriting.  But when Mateo catches me shadowing him, we stare at each other, embarrassment coloring our cheeks. Stammering and blushing, I rush home only to discover my next clue. I step inside to open the envelope and am again overwhelmed by the message on the page, which praises my “lovely brown eyes” and “glorious long hair.” While I do have long hair, no one has ever described it as glorious before. Just then, my mother surprises me by coming home early from work. “What’s that, Bella?” she inquires, inclining her head toward the note. Although I try stashing it in my bag, she deftly snatches it from my hands and reads the message. Frowning, she says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bella.”

“Me neither,” I admit before adding, “We’d better tell Abuela, too; she loves drama.”

After I tell my tale, my mom says, “You do have lovely eyes, Bella, but I’m calling the police because mystery stalkers are not welcome here.”

“Don’t be too hasty, dear,” Abuela interrupts. “I never told you about Alejandro, did I?”

I listen intently as Abuela recounts the story of the first love letter she ever received in her homeland of Cuba, a declaration of love from Alejandro, the sweetest, cutest boy she’d known. “I couldn’t believe my luck when he wrote to me, of all the girls in our neighborhood,” she recalls with a melancholy smile. Before she could muster the courage to reply, however, her family abruptly fled Cuba. “Those were difficult and dangerous times; we abandoned everything and started over. I was never able to say goodbye or let him know I cared for him, too.”

With glistening eyes, she encourages Mom to give young love a chance to flourish, and I’m speechless when my mom reluctantly consents. “But you will alert me the minute you receive another note,” she insists.

The next morning, eager to provide my secret admirer an opportunity to deliver another letter, I venture out on an errand for Abuela. Upon returning, I find the latest message: “My dearest Bella, Meet me at the park on 65th Street at 4:00.” Desperate to meet this unknown scribe, I beg my mom for permission to go; she finally relents on the condition that Abuela accompany me. We arrive early, hoping to spot Mateo but encounter only an older gentleman dressed in a seersucker suit bearing a bouquet of flowers. I look past him, but Abuela gasps and exclaims, “Alejandro, after all these years!” Then she turns to me and says softly, “I had forgotten he called me Bella—beautiful. I’m so sorry, Bella. Are you very disappointed?”

“Only in my detecting skills,” I answer with a rueful smile before adding, “I’m glad he found you, Abuela.” As Abuela reunites with a man she hasn’t seen since childhood, I turn away to afford them privacy. My phone vibrates, and I expect my mom wants an update, but I see an unfamiliar number on the screen. My spirit soars as I read the message: “Hi, it’s Mateo. Coming back to the library tomorrow by any chance?”

How does the author show that Bella is a reliable narrator?

Read the Passage:

Rescue Mission

1. 1. I've got the clips, bungee cord, vests, and basket, and the rest of the equipment is onboard. I have to get my head in the zone because this chopper is heading into stormy conditions, and it will feel as though things are happening at supersonic speed when we get to the site. This storm blew in unbelievably fast, so I can see how those poor fishermen were marooned. They were out there just trying to make a living on a Monday afternoon, and along comes a life-threatening situation. I hope they're both unharmed and conscious, and that they will be able to help me give them assistance.

2. 2. I'm going to try and get a visual of the fishermen as soon as possible because it's critical to know what I'm going into. I have to be cognizant of every detail at the site so that I can work in an accurate and expeditious manner. Oh, here it comes: the Wave of Doubt. Why can't I just concentrate on the task at hand in these situations? Here's a better question: Why didn't I go into public relations or web design like everyone else in my class so that I would have been able to stay on dry land seven days a week?

3. 3. It was the summer of sophomore year when Maceo, Tim, and I went out on Uncle Jack's boat and witnessed the rescue mission that determined my fate. As much as I wanted to know what was going to happen to the people on that boat, I was just as captivated by that amazing rescue team. That team could never have anticipated the exact circumstances it would encounter--the direction of the wind, the quickly disappearing ship, and the angle at which it had capsized--and yet every maneuver was executed as if the mission had been planned and choreographed. That's the moment I decided what I would do with the rest of my life. of course, I could have decided to be a dispatcher for the Coast Guard, and i still would have been close to the action, but I had to go for the glory.

4. 4. It's all about adrenaline rush; the only problem with that rush is that there are lives at stake. Those poor fishermen got swept off track and stranded by this storm, and I'm the one they are relying on to extricate them from a treacherous situation and bring them home to their families. Okay, i have to snap out of this because I know that the captain wouldn't assign me to these missions if I couldn't handle them. I have received years of elite training for missions like this, and I have a spotless track record for at-sea rescues. Why do I always have to convince myself that I am capable of this?

5. 5. Okay, I can see the area where these guys must be stranded, so I'll get my gear together and be ready to go. This wind is unbelievable, but if I'm heading into a storm, it's certainly in my favor to have Thao as my pilot. He's the best pilot I've ever worked with, and he can keep a helicopter steady in a monsoon. I wonder whether Thao ever doubts himself or whether he questions his ability the way I do mine. is that something I can ask someone who has a high-pressure occupation, or will he think I've lost my edge?

6. 6. It looks like we're going to circle around and wait for the most judicious opportunity for rescue. I know that Thao does not want to repeatedly attempt this approach; he wants to be confident that when he makes his descent, it is at the most favorable time to carry out the rescue. I can see exactly how these fishermen got stranded here, and it looks like they did everything right once they realized they were going to get stuck. That will make the rescue that much easier.

7. 7. I shouldn't think of this as easy. I know what I need to do here, but I could lose one of these men if just one thing goes wrong. I'll hear my petty officer who's here in the chopper through my earpiece, and he'll be acting as a second pair of eyes alerting me about anything he thinks I do not see coming. While that's reassuring, it's up to me to get those men into this helicopter.

8. 8. Here we go; Thao is making his descent. I'm going to be in a perfect position as I leave the chopper, and I can visualize just how this is going to go. Every move will be deliberate and meticulous, just like that rescue from sophomore year. I'm close enough to see the relief in the fishermen's faces. I've got this.

How does the author of this passage create tension?

Read the Passage:

Rescue Mission

1. 1. I've got the clips, bungee cord, vests, and basket, and the rest of the equipment is onboard. I have to get my head in the zone because this chopper is heading into stormy conditions, and it will feel as though things are happening at supersonic speed when we get to the site. This storm blew in unbelievably fast, so I can see how those poor fishermen were marooned. They were out there just trying to make a living on a Monday afternoon, and along comes a life-threatening situation. I hope they're both unharmed and conscious, and that they will be able to help me give them assistance.

2. 2. I'm going to try and get a visual of the fishermen as soon as possible because it's critical to know what I'm going into. I have to be cognizant of every detail at the site so that I can work in an accurate and expeditious manner. Oh, here it comes: the Wave of Doubt. Why can't I just concentrate on the task at hand in these situations? Here's a better question: Why didn't I go into public relations or web design like everyone else in my class so that I would have been able to stay on dry land seven days a week?

3. 3. It was the summer of sophomore year when Maceo, Tim, and I went out on Uncle Jack's boat and witnessed the rescue mission that determined my fate. As much as I wanted to know what was going to happen to the people on that boat, I was just as captivated by that amazing rescue team. That team could never have anticipated the exact circumstances it would encounter--the direction of the wind, the quickly disappearing ship, and the angle at which it had capsized--and yet every maneuver was executed as if the mission had been planned and choreographed. That's the moment I decided what I would do with the rest of my life. of course, I could have decided to be a dispatcher for the Coast Guard, and i still would have been close to the action, but I had to go for the glory.

4. 4. It's all about adrenaline rush; the only problem with that rush is that there are lives at stake. Those poor fishermen got swept off track and stranded by this storm, and I'm the one they are relying on to extricate them from a treacherous situation and bring them home to their families. Okay, i have to snap out of this because I know that the captain wouldn't assign me to these missions if I couldn't handle them. I have received years of elite training for missions like this, and I have a spotless track record for at-sea rescues. Why do I always have to convince myself that I am capable of this?

5. 5. Okay, I can see the area where these guys must be stranded, so I'll get my gear together and be ready to go. This wind is unbelievable, but if I'm heading into a storm, it's certainly in my favor to have Thao as my pilot. He's the best pilot I've ever worked with, and he can keep a helicopter steady in a monsoon. I wonder whether Thao ever doubts himself or whether he questions his ability the way I do mine. is that something I can ask someone who has a high-pressure occupation, or will he think I've lost my edge?

6. 6. It looks like we're going to circle around and wait for the most judicious opportunity for rescue. I know that Thao does not want to repeatedly attempt this approach; he wants to be confident that when he makes his descent, it is at the most favorable time to carry out the rescue. I can see exactly how these fishermen got stranded here, and it looks like they did everything right once they realized they were going to get stuck. That will make the rescue that much easier.

7. 7. I shouldn't think of this as easy. I know what I need to do here, but I could lose one of these men if just one thing goes wrong. I'll hear my petty officer who's here in the chopper through my earpiece, and he'll be acting as a second pair of eyes alerting me about anything he thinks I do not see coming. While that's reassuring, it's up to me to get those men into this helicopter.

8. 8. Here we go; Thao is making his descent. I'm going to be in a perfect position as I leave the chopper, and I can visualize just how this is going to go. Every move will be deliberate and meticulous, just like that rescue from sophomore year. I'm close enough to see the relief in the fishermen's faces. I've got this.

Which textual evidence supports the response in the previous question?

Read the Passage:

Rescue Mission

1. 1. I've got the clips, bungee cord, vests, and basket, and the rest of the equipment is onboard. I have to get my head in the zone because this chopper is heading into stormy conditions, and it will feel as though things are happening at supersonic speed when we get to the site. This storm blew in unbelievably fast, so I can see how those poor fishermen were marooned. They were out there just trying to make a living on a Monday afternoon, and along comes a life-threatening situation. I hope they're both unharmed and conscious, and that they will be able to help me give them assistance.

2. 2. I'm going to try and get a visual of the fishermen as soon as possible because it's critical to know what I'm going into. I have to be cognizant of every detail at the site so that I can work in an accurate and expeditious manner. Oh, here it comes: the Wave of Doubt. Why can't I just concentrate on the task at hand in these situations? Here's a better question: Why didn't I go into public relations or web design like everyone else in my class so that I would have been able to stay on dry land seven days a week?

3. 3. It was the summer of sophomore year when Maceo, Tim, and I went out on Uncle Jack's boat and witnessed the rescue mission that determined my fate. As much as I wanted to know what was going to happen to the people on that boat, I was just as captivated by that amazing rescue team. That team could never have anticipated the exact circumstances it would encounter--the direction of the wind, the quickly disappearing ship, and the angle at which it had capsized--and yet every maneuver was executed as if the mission had been planned and choreographed. That's the moment I decided what I would do with the rest of my life. of course, I could have decided to be a dispatcher for the Coast Guard, and i still would have been close to the action, but I had to go for the glory.

4. 4. It's all about adrenaline rush; the only problem with that rush is that there are lives at stake. Those poor fishermen got swept off track and stranded by this storm, and I'm the one they are relying on to extricate them from a treacherous situation and bring them home to their families. Okay, i have to snap out of this because I know that the captain wouldn't assign me to these missions if I couldn't handle them. I have received years of elite training for missions like this, and I have a spotless track record for at-sea rescues. Why do I always have to convince myself that I am capable of this?

5. 5. Okay, I can see the area where these guys must be stranded, so I'll get my gear together and be ready to go. This wind is unbelievable, but if I'm heading into a storm, it's certainly in my favor to have Thao as my pilot. He's the best pilot I've ever worked with, and he can keep a helicopter steady in a monsoon. I wonder whether Thao ever doubts himself or whether he questions his ability the way I do mine. is that something I can ask someone who has a high-pressure occupation, or will he think I've lost my edge?

6. 6. It looks like we're going to circle around and wait for the most judicious opportunity for rescue. I know that Thao does not want to repeatedly attempt this approach; he wants to be confident that when he makes his descent, it is at the most favorable time to carry out the rescue. I can see exactly how these fishermen got stranded here, and it looks like they did everything right once they realized they were going to get stuck. That will make the rescue that much easier.

7. 7. I shouldn't think of this as easy. I know what I need to do here, but I could lose one of these men if just one thing goes wrong. I'll hear my petty officer who's here in the chopper through my earpiece, and he'll be acting as a second pair of eyes alerting me about anything he thinks I do not see coming. While that's reassuring, it's up to me to get those men into this helicopter.

8. 8. Here we go; Thao is making his descent. I'm going to be in a perfect position as I leave the chopper, and I can visualize just how this is going to go. Every move will be deliberate and meticulous, just like that rescue from sophomore year. I'm close enough to see the relief in the fishermen's faces. I've got this.

Which statement best describes how the exposition affects the story?

Read the Passage:

Rescue Mission

1. 1. I've got the clips, bungee cord, vests, and basket, and the rest of the equipment is onboard. I have to get my head in the zone because this chopper is heading into stormy conditions, and it will feel as though things are happening at supersonic speed when we get to the site. This storm blew in unbelievably fast, so I can see how those poor fishermen were marooned. They were out there just trying to make a living on a Monday afternoon, and along comes a life-threatening situation. I hope they're both unharmed and conscious, and that they will be able to help me give them assistance.

2. 2. I'm going to try and get a visual of the fishermen as soon as possible because it's critical to know what I'm going into. I have to be cognizant of every detail at the site so that I can work in an accurate and expeditious manner. Oh, here it comes: the Wave of Doubt. Why can't I just concentrate on the task at hand in these situations? Here's a better question: Why didn't I go into public relations or web design like everyone else in my class so that I would have been able to stay on dry land seven days a week?

3. 3. It was the summer of sophomore year when Maceo, Tim, and I went out on Uncle Jack's boat and witnessed the rescue mission that determined my fate. As much as I wanted to know what was going to happen to the people on that boat, I was just as captivated by that amazing rescue team. That team could never have anticipated the exact circumstances it would encounter--the direction of the wind, the quickly disappearing ship, and the angle at which it had capsized--and yet every maneuver was executed as if the mission had been planned and choreographed. That's the moment I decided what I would do with the rest of my life. of course, I could have decided to be a dispatcher for the Coast Guard, and i still would have been close to the action, but I had to go for the glory.

4. 4. It's all about adrenaline rush; the only problem with that rush is that there are lives at stake. Those poor fishermen got swept off track and stranded by this storm, and I'm the one they are relying on to extricate them from a treacherous situation and bring them home to their families. Okay, i have to snap out of this because I know that the captain wouldn't assign me to these missions if I couldn't handle them. I have received years of elite training for missions like this, and I have a spotless track record for at-sea rescues. Why do I always have to convince myself that I am capable of this?

5. 5. Okay, I can see the area where these guys must be stranded, so I'll get my gear together and be ready to go. This wind is unbelievable, but if I'm heading into a storm, it's certainly in my favor to have Thao as my pilot. He's the best pilot I've ever worked with, and he can keep a helicopter steady in a monsoon. I wonder whether Thao ever doubts himself or whether he questions his ability the way I do mine. is that something I can ask someone who has a high-pressure occupation, or will he think I've lost my edge?

6. 6. It looks like we're going to circle around and wait for the most judicious opportunity for rescue. I know that Thao does not want to repeatedly attempt this approach; he wants to be confident that when he makes his descent, it is at the most favorable time to carry out the rescue. I can see exactly how these fishermen got stranded here, and it looks like they did everything right once they realized they were going to get stuck. That will make the rescue that much easier.

7. 7. I shouldn't think of this as easy. I know what I need to do here, but I could lose one of these men if just one thing goes wrong. I'll hear my petty officer who's here in the chopper through my earpiece, and he'll be acting as a second pair of eyes alerting me about anything he thinks I do not see coming. While that's reassuring, it's up to me to get those men into this helicopter.

8. 8. Here we go; Thao is making his descent. I'm going to be in a perfect position as I leave the chopper, and I can visualize just how this is going to go. Every move will be deliberate and meticulous, just like that rescue from sophomore year. I'm close enough to see the relief in the fishermen's faces. I've got this.

What is the effect of the author's choice to tell this story in the present tense?

Which phrase from this sentence best reveals the meaning of the word concurrent?

Rather than taking them during separate semesters, James decided to take concurrent courses despite what he knew would be a heavy workload. 

Which phrase is the definition of the word propensity?

Because of her little sister's lifelong propensity for constant chatter, Mazy often retreated to the privacy of her bedroom, seeking silence. 

Which definition of abstract is used in this sentence?

Jillian's plan for her career as an adult was still abstract since she concerned herself with friends and family instead.

Which phrase is the best meaning of the word precludes in this sentence?

With ongoing demands of music practice and homework, Jariah's fully packed schedule precludes an active social life of leisure activities.

Which phrase from the sentence best reveals the meaning of the word belligerent?

When her parents refused to buy the toddler the candy she begged for, the belligerent child threw herself, kicking and screaming, to the floor of the grocery store.