Read the passage, then answer the question.

Professor Hana al-Khatib’s lecture hall smelled faintly of chalk and wet wool. Students arrived in clusters, shaking off rain, and settled into their seats with the restless energy of people who had been promised a “guest speaker.” On the board, Hana had written a single sentence in careful script: WE CHOOSE WHAT TO REMEMBER.

The guest, Dr. Petrov, was a visiting historian with a polished accent and a habit of adjusting his cufflinks before answering questions. He spoke about an eighteenth-century general who, facing dwindling supplies, ordered a retreat that saved his army from immediate collapse. Petrov quoted a letter—“I prefer disgrace to annihilation”—and let the words hang as if they were self-evident.

During the Q&A, a student named Amina raised her hand. “If he preferred disgrace,” she asked, “why did he later commission paintings of the retreat as a ‘strategic repositioning’?”

Petrov smiled. “Because posterity is a demanding audience.”

Hana watched the students’ pens move faster. In the back row, Jonah whispered, “So he lied,” and another student shushed him with theatrical indignation.

After class, Hana erased the board slowly, leaving the word REMEMBER for last. Petrov lingered by the podium. “Your students are sharp,” he said.

“They’re hungry,” Hana replied, gathering her notes. Among them was a photocopy of the general’s ledger, margins filled with numbers and an ink blot that obscured a date.

Petrov tapped the ledger lightly. “Details can be…inconvenient,” he said.

Hana slid the paper into her folder. “So can silences,” she answered, and closed the clasp with a click that sounded louder than it should have.

Question: What does the author imply about historical accounts through Petrov’s comments and Hana’s actions?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

The library’s renovation plan was presented on foam boards propped against the reference desk. The renderings showed airy reading nooks, a café, and glass-walled “collaboration rooms.” In the drawings, every patron appeared to be smiling, as if books had become optional.

Ms. Adeyemi, the head librarian, walked the trustees through the proposal. She nodded at the café. “Revenue,” she said, then at the glass rooms. “Engagement.” Her voice remained even, but she kept smoothing the edge of the board with her fingertips, as though flattening a wrinkle no one else could see.

A trustee named Mr. Halvorsen gestured toward the children’s section on the map. “We can reduce shelving there,” he said. “Kids use tablets now.”

From behind a stack of returned books, twelve-year-old Lien looked up, her arms full. She carried hardcovers the way some people carry groceries—carefully, as if dropping one would be wasteful.

Ms. Adeyemi’s smile held. “They also use imagination,” she said, and turned the board slightly so the children’s section faced the trustees again.

Mr. Halvorsen chuckled. “Imagination doesn’t require square footage.”

Later, after the trustees left, Ms. Adeyemi walked to the children’s shelves and began re-aligning spines that were already aligned.

Question: What can be inferred about Ms. Adeyemi’s response to the renovation plan?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

The principal called it a “device-free initiative,” a phrase that sounded like a health trend. Posters appeared in the hallways: LOOK UP. TALK MORE. The font was playful, as if the school were inviting students to a game rather than issuing a rule.

In homeroom, Mr. Alvarez collected phones in a plastic bin. He did it gently, like a librarian handling rare books. “You’ll get them back,” he said, though no one had asked.

Sana placed her phone in the bin last. Her screen lit briefly, showing a notification from her mother: Call me when you can. Sana turned the phone face down before it disappeared under other devices.

At lunch, the cafeteria was louder. People talked, but the conversations had a brittle tempo, starting and stopping like engines in winter. Sana sat with her friends and laughed at the right moments, yet her eyes kept drifting to the teacher’s table, where the bin sat like a small aquarium.

After school, Sana waited by the office for the bin to return. A freshman asked, “Is it nice without phones?”

Sana answered, “It’s quiet,” and then corrected herself: “It’s loud.”

Question: How does Sana’s behavior suggest her true feelings about the initiative?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

On the train platform, a new sign had appeared: PLEASE REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY. The letters were large, the tone politely urgent. Beneath it, someone had taped a smaller flyer advertising a poetry reading at the library, the paper already curling at the edges.

Hiroko waited with her violin case at her feet. She had played at the library before, in a room that smelled of old books and lemon cleaner, where the audience listened as if they were trying not to disturb the shelves. Today, she was headed to a downtown audition, the kind that required an outfit chosen for its invisibility.

A man in a security uniform walked past, then doubled back. His gaze paused on her case. “What’s in there?” he asked.

“A violin,” Hiroko said, and shifted the case slightly so the worn handle showed.

He nodded, but his eyes lingered. “You got ID?”

Hiroko reached into her bag. Her fingers brushed the audition music, the edges softened from practice. She handed him her driver’s license.

He studied it longer than necessary, then returned it with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “All right,” he said. “Just doing my job.”

When the train arrived, Hiroko picked up her case and boarded. Inside, she chose a seat beneath a map of the city, its lines neat and confident. She rested the case on her lap and kept her hand on it until the doors closed.

Question: What does the author imply about public vigilance through Hiroko’s interaction with the guard?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

The museum’s “Community Voices” exhibit occupied a bright hall near the entrance, where visitors could not avoid it on their way to the famous paintings upstairs. The exhibit featured recorded interviews, family photographs, and a wall where people could pin handwritten notes. The wall was already crowded, the paper overlapping like scales.

Mina volunteered as a docent on Saturdays. She wore a badge with her name in large letters, though she preferred the anonymity of the crowd. During her shift, she noticed a man in a tailored coat standing in front of a photograph of a demolished apartment building. He read the caption twice, then took out his phone and photographed the photograph.

“Is that allowed?” Mina asked, stepping closer.

He looked at her badge. “I’m on the museum board,” he said, not answering. “We funded this section. It’s important work.”

Mina nodded, then watched him move to the note wall. He scanned the messages quickly, as if searching for a keyword, and selected one written in thick black marker: WE ARE STILL HERE. He touched the paper’s corner, then let it fall back against the wall.

A child nearby asked, “Why did they knock it down?”

The man smiled at the child. “Cities change,” he said, and walked toward the staircase leading to the famous paintings.

Mina remained by the wall. She took out a pushpin and secured the corner of WE ARE STILL HERE more firmly.

Question: What does the author imply about the board member’s engagement with the exhibit?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

The day of the graduation party, Mr. Alvarez insisted the grill be lit early, though the backyard was still damp from morning rain. He moved between the patio and the kitchen with the briskness of someone following a list only he could see. On the counter, a stack of paper plates leaned against the fruit bowl; the top plate bore a faint crease, as if it had been pressed too hard.

“No need to fuss,” his wife, Celeste, said, sliding a tray of empanadas into the oven. Her voice was light, but she kept checking the clock above the sink, where the second hand clicked with an audible impatience.

Their son, Diego, appeared in the doorway wearing his cap and gown, the tassel still pinned. “I’m going to change,” he announced.

“Leave it on for a minute,” Mr. Alvarez said, not looking up from the grill tongs. “Your abuela will want to see you like that.”

Diego’s mouth tightened. “She’s not coming.”

Celeste set down the oven mitts carefully. “Diego,” she warned, as though his words might spill.

Mr. Alvarez turned the tongs in his hands, opening and closing them with a dry snap. “She’s busy,” he said. “You know how she is.”

Diego’s friend Noor arrived first, carrying a bouquet wrapped in brown paper. “Congratulations,” she said, and Diego smiled at her with an ease that seemed borrowed.

As more guests filtered in, Celeste circulated with a pitcher of lemonade, refilling cups that were not yet empty. When the doorbell rang again, Mr. Alvarez wiped his hands on his apron and went to answer it. A delivery person stood there with a small box and a clipboard.

“Signature required,” the delivery person said.

Mr. Alvarez signed quickly, then held the box as if it might be warm. He carried it to the kitchen, set it behind the bread basket, and washed his hands for longer than necessary.

Later, when Noor asked where Diego planned to go for college, Mr. Alvarez answered before Diego could. “Close,” he said. “Close is smart.” Diego’s gaze slid to the hidden box and then away.

Question: How does Mr. Alvarez’s behavior suggest his true feelings about Diego leaving home?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

At the retirement dinner, the restaurant’s private room glittered with too many votive candles, as if warmth could be manufactured. Mr. Kim sat at the center of the long table, his tie loosened by half an inch, his hands folded neatly even when he was not speaking. Colleagues took turns offering toasts that described him as “steady,” “dependable,” and, more than once, “unfailingly reasonable.”

His daughter, Yuna, arrived halfway through the appetizers, slipping into the empty chair beside him with a quiet apology. She placed a thin gift bag on the table. Tissue paper protruded like a white flag.

“You made it,” Mr. Kim said, and his voice carried the same tone he used on voicemail: courteous, complete.

Yuna leaned close. “The train stalled,” she whispered. “I tried calling.”

Mr. Kim nodded once, then turned to accept another handshake. When the dessert plates arrived, the manager brought a small cake with “CONGRATULATIONS” piped in stiff icing. Everyone clapped; someone began a chant that faltered after two repetitions.

“Speech!” a coworker called.

Mr. Kim stood. He thanked the company, thanked the team, and thanked his wife, who smiled with her lips but kept rubbing her thumb along the edge of her napkin. He did not mention Yuna. The omission was not dramatic; it was clean, like a line drawn with a ruler.

After the applause, Yuna reached into the gift bag and pulled out a fountain pen, heavy and black, the kind that required deliberate ink. “For you,” she said.

Mr. Kim uncapped it, tested the nib on the back of the program, and replaced the cap. “Practical,” he said. Then he slid it into his jacket pocket, where it disappeared.

When the candles burned low, Yuna gathered her coat. Mr. Kim rose to help her with it, his hands hovering at her shoulders before settling on the fabric instead.

“Drive safely,” he said.

Question: How does Mr. Kim’s behavior indicate his true feelings about Yuna’s presence at the dinner?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

In the winter of eighteen sixty-two, President Lincoln read the latest draft of the proclamation aloud to himself, as though sound might reveal weaknesses ink concealed. The room smelled of coal smoke and damp wool; boots had tracked in slush that melted into irregular maps on the carpet.

Secretary Seward waited by the window with a newspaper folded under his arm. “If you issue it now,” he said, “it will be received as the last measure of an exhausted government.” He did not raise his voice; the sentence was arranged carefully, like glassware.

Lincoln set the paper down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We have had our share of exhausted mornings,” he replied, then reached for a letter from a Union general. The general’s handwriting slanted forward, urgent: Men desert for want of conviction as much as for want of bread.

Outside, a messenger’s footsteps receded down the corridor. Lincoln listened until the sound vanished, then turned to Seward. “You would have me wait for a victory,” he said.

Seward’s gaze stayed on the gray street. “For a moment that looks like strength,” he answered.

Later, when the cabinet assembled, Lincoln did not mention the proclamation at first. He asked about rail lines, about supplies, about the price of horses. Only after the room had settled into the familiar rhythm of numbers did he unfold the draft again.

Chase leaned forward, eager. Blair frowned, as if weighing costs no one else could see. Lincoln’s fingers tapped the margin in a pattern that might have been impatience or calculation.

“I have promised my God,” Lincoln said, reading from a note he had written to himself, “that if Lee is driven back, I will crown the result by declaring the slaves free.” The sentence hung in the air without explanation.

When the meeting ended, Seward remained behind. Lincoln held the draft out. “You were right about timing,” he said, almost casually, “but not about necessity.”

Seward took the pages and, with a faint smile, suggested revisions that made the language less like an ultimatum and more like a door left open.

Question: What can be inferred about Lincoln from his handling of the proclamation’s timing?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

At the Lunar New Year dinner, Jun’s father placed the fish on the table with ceremonial care, its head angled toward the eldest as tradition required. The apartment’s radiator clicked like an impatient metronome. On the wall, a red paper cutout of the character for fortune hung slightly crooked, its corner lifting where the tape had begun to fail.

Jun’s sister, Anya, had arrived from college with a new haircut and a tote bag printed with the name of a museum. She set a small envelope beside their mother’s plate. “For the tuition deposit,” she said, pronouncing the word deposit as though it were a fragile object.

Their mother, Lian, slid the envelope back without opening it. “Keep it,” she replied, reaching for the serving spoon. “You’ll need it.”

Anya’s smile held, but her fingers tightened on her chopsticks. “I already paid,” she said. “This is for you.”

Jun watched their father pour tea. He filled his own cup last, though no one had asked him to serve. When Lian stood to fetch more rice, their father rose too quickly, bumping his knee on the table leg. The teacups trembled, but he steadied them before they spilled.

“Careful,” Lian said, not looking at him.

Anya began describing her internship—curators, archives, a seminar that met in a room “older than the country.” Their father nodded at the right moments, yet his eyes returned repeatedly to the envelope, as if it had altered the table’s center of gravity.

When the oranges were brought out, Jun’s father peeled one in a single spiral, the rind unbroken. He placed the fruit segments onto Anya’s plate, then onto Lian’s, leaving none for himself.

Jun reached for the envelope. Lian’s hand covered it first, palm flat, a quiet veto. “Eat,” she said.

The radiator clicked again, louder this time, and the fortune character lifted further from the wall.

Question: What can be inferred about Lian from her handling of Anya’s envelope?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

The museum’s new exhibit, “Threads of Empire,” opened with speeches that sounded rehearsed even when they were not read from cards. Aisha, hired as a temporary docent, stood near the entrance archway, her badge clipped to a blazer that still smelled faintly of dry-cleaning solvent. She had memorized the official script: dates, trade routes, the benefactors’ names pronounced with careful reverence.

Before the doors opened, the curator, Mr. Hargrove, approached her with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Remember,” he said, smoothing the edge of a brochure, “we’re emphasizing exchange.” He spoke the word as if it were a varnish.

Aisha nodded. She had learned, in two weeks, that nodding could be a kind of employment.

The first group entered: a class of eighth graders, their teacher shepherding them like loose paper in wind. A boy lingered by a glass case holding a faded textile. “Who made this?” he asked.

Aisha began with the script, then stopped. The textile’s label listed a region and a century, but the maker’s name was absent, replaced by a tidy phrase: Unknown artisan. The fabric’s edges were frayed in a way that suggested use, not display.

“Someone who didn’t get to sign it,” Aisha said, keeping her voice even.

Behind her, Mr. Hargrove coughed once—softly, a punctuation mark. Aisha continued, pointing to the uneven stitching. “See how the pattern changes here? That’s a hand adjusting, not a machine repeating.”

The teacher glanced at the label, then at Aisha. “Is that in the notes?” she asked.

“It’s in the cloth,” Aisha replied.

At closing, Mr. Hargrove handed Aisha a revised script. Several sentences were underlined, and the word exchange appeared twice more than before. “For consistency,” he said.

Aisha slid the pages into her bag without reading them again.

Question: What does the author imply about the exhibit’s narrative through Aisha’s unscripted explanation?