After the corner store on Maple and 3rd shut its doors, the lot sat empty, a rectangle of baked dirt collecting soda cans and rumors. In July, our social studies teacher asked if anyone would help turn it into a community garden. I signed up mostly for extra credit. On the first Saturday, we had more rakes than people. Ms. Alvarez brought a folding table and cold oranges. Mr. Tran showed us how coffee grounds turn into soil that breathes. We pulled weeds, then stories: a neighbor who remembered when the store gave kids free ice on scorching days; a kid who missed the shade that used to fall across the sidewalk at 4 p.m. Seeds went in. Waiting happened. By September, basil perfumed the sidewalk, and jalapeños hung like little lanterns. We kept a clipboard for rainfall and donated extra produce to the food pantry. Walking home, my hands still stained green, I realized the garden wasn't really about vegetables. It was about claiming a place together, about being seen by people who used to pass with their heads down. The lot still sits on the corner, but now it collects names, faces, and the quiet nods of neighbors.

Which connection best relates the passage to broader personal experiences, other texts, or societal issues?

In late August, our West Texas city posted new watering rules: even addresses on Wednesdays, odd on Saturdays, no sprinklers between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. Our lawn already crunches, but Dad hands me a bucket anyway. "Catch the cold water before the shower warms up," he says. We pour it on the oak whose leaves have curled like fists. At school, Ms. Rios has us compare soil moisture from spots around town—park, median, backyard gardens. The numbers sag week after week. Mr. Ortiz, our neighbor, tells me how the 2011 drought shrank his herd, how he learned which grasses survive and which don't. At a community meeting, the talk turns to the aquifer, to pipes older than my grandparents, to bills we'll all share. Some people roll their eyes. Others nod like they've been waiting to be asked. I used to think water was automatic, the way lights flash on with a switch. Now I hear the hollow thunk of the bucket when it's empty. I see how a place ties itself to what it can drink, and how a town decides—together—what to save when the sky forgets us for a while.

Which connection best relates the passage to broader personal experiences, other texts, or societal issues?

Grandma begins the morning certain her bus is late for work at the dress shop she left twenty years ago. My cousin and I have a system: label drawers, set out the oatmeal bowl, place the photo album open to the page with the yellow Easter dress. Sometimes the cues land like stepping stones; sometimes they sink and we wade anyway. After school, I trade text threads about homework for reminders about teeth, pills, and the dog. I used to think care was a list you could finish. Now I know it's a circle you walk with someone who can't always see the path. On Thursdays, a volunteer from church sits with Grandma so Mom can run errands by herself. When I get an hour, I bike to the park and just listen to the wheels hum. At night, Grandma tells the same story about the seamstress who stitched her name inside a collar. I don't correct her. I ask questions instead. The story grows like a quilt—even if some squares are worn thin, the pattern still holds.

Which connection best relates the passage to broader personal experiences, other texts, or societal issues?

At the youth soccer sign-ups at our Houston community center, the line curved past the vending machine and the bulletin board full of flyers in English. Mrs. Nguyen asked me, in Vietnamese, if I could help her fill out the form. Then Mr. Castillo waved me over for Spanish. I moved between tables like a shuttle in a loom—hello, one moment please, signature here—until my tongue felt like it had run a relay. I'm proud I can help. I'm also fifteen. When a coach started explaining refund policies and liability, I wished an adult interpreter would step in. Afterward, our director rolled out a cart with sticky notes. "Write what would make this easier next time," she said. People drew pictures of maps, arrows, and little headphones. Two weeks later, the flyers came back in three languages, and a volunteer board listed adults who could interpret. I still translate sometimes, but now I'm not the only bridge. On game day, the cheers sound different in every row and exactly the same across the field. It turns out access can be a team sport, too.

Which connection best relates the passage to broader personal experiences, other texts, or societal issues?