In the Hill Country, the Edwards Aquifer acts like a vast, hidden sponge. Rainfall that seems to vanish into the ground is actually slipping through fractured limestone, a karst landscape that funnels water into underground chambers. Scientists call the land where water can most easily enter the aquifer the recharge zone. When storms sweep across dry creek beds, sudden runoff can carry both life-sustaining water and pollutants into that zone. Because the aquifer feeds springs that supply cities like San Antonio, managers track water levels and set drought stage restrictions that limit pumping when levels fall. One month of heavy rain may briefly lift the numbers, but months of heat can draw the aquifer down again through evaporation, plant use, and human demand. Decisions about watering lawns, growing crops, or expanding neighborhoods ripple through this system. Understanding how water moves from hilltop to cave to spring helps explain why some years bring crystal-clear flow at the headwaters and other years leave channels threadbare. The story of the aquifer is a chain of causes and effects, not a single event.

Which reading approach would best help you comprehend this informational passage?

Build a simple rain gauge and keep a two-week rainfall log. Materials: clear plastic bottle, scissors, small stones, waterproof tape, ruler, and a level surface outdoors. First, carefully cut the top off the bottle just below the neck. Invert the top to form a funnel and tape it to the cut edge. Place a layer of stones in the bottom to prevent tipping, then tape a ruler to the outside so the zero mark aligns with the inside bottom. Set the gauge on a level, open area away from roofs, trees, and fences that could drip or block rain. Each evening at the same time, check the water level at eye height, record the measurement in your log, and note wind or storm conditions. If the gauge fills past the top of the ruler, pour the water into a straight-sided cup, measure in parts, and add the amounts. After measuring, gently empty and replace the gauge so it starts at zero. At the end of two weeks, total the amounts and compare your daily notes to identify which storms produced the most rainfall.

Which strategy is best for reading and carrying out this procedural text?

Texans pride themselves on big skies, but that view is fading under a haze of unnecessary light. Glare from unshielded fixtures washes over neighborhoods, confusing migrating birds and wasting money as beams spill into the night instead of onto the ground. Some worry that dimmer lights mean less safety, yet research shows that well-placed, shielded lighting reduces glare and improves visibility. Communities from the Panhandle to West Texas have proven it works; near an observatory, towns adopted warm, downward-facing LEDs and kept streets visible while restoring starlight. This is not about turning everything off. It is about using light wisely—choosing fixtures that direct light where people need it, setting timers, and lowering brightness during overnight hours. These choices protect wildlife, honor traditions like backyard stargazing, and draw visitors who travel to see the Milky Way arch over desert mesas. If we want future Texans to inherit skies as vast as their stories, we should pass ordinances that encourage smarter lighting and help residents retrofit. The cost is modest; the return—healthier habitats, preserved culture, and clearer views—is immense.

What is the central idea of this editorial?

The backstage hallway hums—an air-conditioner drone, a shoe squeak, a cough swallowed by curtains. I roll the note cards in my palm, unroll them, then tuck them away. You've practiced, I tell myself, but my thoughts jump to last year's stumble (the microphone squealed, and so did I). Footsteps approach, then recede. The stage manager whispers my name and vanishes like a lighthouse beam—on, off—while I drift between the speech I wrote and the speech I might actually give. I picture the first line as a rope I can grip. Pause at the comma, I remind myself. Let the laugh land. The auditorium is a dark ocean with islands of faces. Somewhere in that darkness my teacher nods. Somewhere my friend mouths, You've got this. The curtains breathe. I step forward, and the script in my head rearranges itself into the sound of my own voice, steadier than I expected—until a thought flashes, uninvited: What if I forget the middle? I breathe. I find the rope again.

Which reading approach would best help you capture the tone and structure of this narrative passage?

Under the hills west of San Antonio lies the Edwards Aquifer, a limestone sponge that quietly supplies drinking water to millions. Rainfall does not simply run off in streams; it disappears into sinkholes, seeps through cracked bedrock, and gathers in dark chambers where pressure pushes water toward iconic springs. In drought, springflow weakens; when tropical systems drift inland, the aquifer "recharges," swelling like lungs after a sprint. Scientists track water levels with monitoring wells, mapping the delicate balance between pumping for cities, irrigating fields, and keeping endangered species alive. Regulations designate recharge and contributing zones, where construction must limit runoff and pollution. Yet trade-offs persist: a new subdivision might boost tax rolls while sending oil and fertilizer toward the same fissures that feed the aquifer. Reading the aquifer is like reading a ledger—every withdrawal and deposit matters. Understanding these hidden pathways helps Texans plan for tomorrow's taps. Hydrologists compare long-term rainfall patterns with pumping records, building models that predict how quickly water levels respond to storms. For residents, a single summer of green lawns can mask a declining trend that only careful graphs and patient measurement reveal.

Which reading approach would best help you comprehend this passage?

Before you start, gather a clean cast-iron skillet, mild soap, a non-scratch scrubber, a dry towel, and a thin, high-smoke-point oil. To refresh seasoning, first remove any rust or sticky residue: rinse the cooled pan under warm water and gently scrub. Dry immediately; even a minute of lingering moisture can invite rust. Next, warm the pan on low heat for a few minutes to open its pores. Using a folded paper towel or cloth, rub a pea-sized amount of oil over every surface—inside, outside, and handle—leaving only a whisper-thin sheen. If you see visible streaks or puddles, wipe more off; too much oil turns gummy. Place the pan upside down on the center rack of an oven preheated to 450 degrees, with a foil-lined sheet beneath to catch drips. Bake for one hour, then turn the oven off and let the pan cool inside without touching. Repeat the oil-and-bake cycle two or three times for a durable finish. For routine care, avoid soaking, and after each use, wipe clean, dry over heat, and apply the lightest coat of oil.

Given this procedural text, which reading strategy is most effective?

By dusk, the sky above the Llano Estacado had turned the color of a bruise. The wind that morning had been a friendly whisper; now it pressed its palm against the porch screens, testing for weakness. Abuela stirred the pot of beans, then nodded toward the bullet-straight horizon. "A blue norther," she said, as if naming an old neighbor. She told us how riders used to watch for that hard line of cold, how stories moved faster than the storm—tales of cattle standing stone-still, of gates singing on their hinges. As the temperature fell, the kettle began to rattle. We hauled quilts from the cedar chest and tucked them around the windows, our breath turning into ghosts. Abuela's voice stayed steady, weaving the land into something we could hold. When the front finally arrived, it came all at once: a slap, a gasp, then a silence that sounded like relief. We ate in that hush, warmed by the stove and the story. Later, when the pipes pinged and the stars returned, she folded the ending like a blanket, reminding us that weather passes, but the telling keeps you through it.

Which sentence best states the central idea of the passage?

Teenagers are not lazy; their biology runs on a clock that shifts during adolescence, making it difficult to fall asleep early and nearly impossible to be alert at dawn. Yet many schools still ring first bell before sunrise, then wonder why students doze through first period. Districts that have moved start times to after 8:30 report higher attendance, fewer tardies, and gains in grades and graduation. The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends later starts for exactly these reasons. Critics warn that after-school activities will suffer, but schools that adjusted found practices slid later without erasing dinner, and bus routes were consolidated to save money. Safety improved, too: well-rested teens had fewer car crashes. If we truly care about learning, we should design schedules that match how teen brains actually work. Start later, and let students show what they can do when their eyes aren't sandpaper and their heads aren't fog. The cost of ignoring the science is paid every morning, in yawns and missed opportunities. This is not a luxury; it is a low-cost reform with measurable academic and health benefits.

To read this persuasive editorial effectively, which strategy should you use?