Text 1 (Press Advisory): Today, the agency announced a monthlong field test of a prototype lunar habitat in the West Texas desert. Engineers will practice power management, dust mitigation, and emergency procedures while living inside the pressurized module. The test will simulate two weeks of continuous night, using LED arrays to mimic the Moon's light cycle. Teams will also evaluate a rover equipped with sample-collection tools. The goal is to reduce risk for the first crewed mission of the program, slated for later this decade. Data from the field test—air quality metrics, communication logs, and crew workload assessments—will guide design updates before the next review. Local schools will be invited to a virtual Q&A during the final week. Media access is limited to one day; safety protocols require preapproved badges and escorted tours.

Text 2 (Personal Narrative): On a chilly night in the Davis Mountains, our science club huddled under blankets at the observatory's star party. When the lights dimmed, the sky turned into a quiet riot of pinpricks, like someone had shaken salt over black velvet. A guide swung a green beam toward Jupiter, and strangers gasped in the dark together. Through the telescope, I saw a pale globe with faint bands, and the idea that people might walk on another world someday felt less like a headline and more like a promise. My phone had no signal, and for once I didn't care. I tried to count the meteors and lost track. Driving back to Fort Davis, I pressed my forehead to the window and watched the stars slide by, thinking how small the car was and how big the night.

Which response best compares how the two texts treat the topic of space exploration?

Text 1 (Informational Article): City officials, facing a third year of below-average rainfall, outlined simple steps that could save millions of gallons this summer. Outdoor watering uses more than half of residential supply; shifting sprinklers to early morning reduces evaporation by as much as 30 percent, according to the utilities department. Swapping a ten-minute shower for five can save 12 gallons. The city is distributing discounted rain barrels and posting weekly reservoir levels online. Students are encouraged to conduct household leak checks by placing a few drops of food coloring in toilet tanks; if the bowl changes color without flushing, a flapper replacement—costing under ten dollars—can stop the loss. Conservation, officials noted, is cheaper than building new pipelines. "We're not asking for perfection," said one engineer. "We're asking for habits." The plan includes biweekly workshops and a friendly neighborhood competition.

Text 2 (Poem): In late July, the river speaks in a hoarse whisper. My boots find cracked mud where minnows used to braid silver threads. Cottonwoods lift their hands and wait for rain that keeps forgetting. I carry a bucket to the lone tomato plant and feel the hose, warm as a sleeping snake, grow still. The river watches. It remembers snowmelt and thunder, the slap of oars, the sound of children cannonballing summer into its chest. It remembers when we opened our palms and let it pass through uncounted. Now it asks questions with a dry tongue: How many mornings will you borrow before you learn to give back? I screw the spigot tight and listen to the quiet answer: a drip slowing, becoming a promise, becoming a creek in my mind that might find its way home.

Which response best compares the two texts' approaches to water conservation?

Text 1 (Diary, 1900 Galveston): September 8, 1900. I woke to a wind that seemed to find every crack in our walls. By afternoon the Gulf had climbed our street, and we carried the parlor chairs upstairs as if that could keep the water from taking them. Mother tied my hair with a string so it wouldn't fly into my eyes, and we watched shingles spin like dark birds. When the neighbor's rope snapped, we opened our door and pulled three children inside, wet as fishes. The house groaned. I kept my feet against the stair rail to feel something still. Someone prayed. When the windows burst, the night came in and the lamp went out. I thought of Father's boat and pretended the creaking was him, walking. In the morning, the world was splinters and mud, and we were somehow here.

Text 2 (Contemporary News Feature): More than a century later, coastal schools across Southeast Texas now run hurricane drills the way they practice fire evacuations. At Bayshore Middle, students trace blue arrows to interior classrooms and learn why "turn around, don't drown" isn't just a slogan. Meteorologists from a regional lab visit with a plastic tub, a heat lamp, and a box fan to model storm surge and wind. The city's emergency manager says the biggest challenge is complacency: years without a major landfall can blur memories. "We honor the past by preparing," she says, pointing to bolted generators and stackable cots in the gym. New building codes require elevated platforms for critical systems, and a student-led podcast interviews elders who remember past storms. The hope, teachers say, is to make readiness as routine as packing lunch.

Which response best compares how the two texts address hurricanes in Texas?

Text 1 (Opinion Editorial): Locking up phones during school hours is not a punishment; it is a promise to let students reclaim their attention. In my classes, the hum of notifications is a mosquito we've taught ourselves to ignore, but it still bites. When we collected phones in soft pouches last spring, hallway traffic sped up, side conversations waned, and group work actually sounded like groups working. Critics say we should teach "responsible use" instead. We do: students check devices at lunch, text guardians through the office, and carry paper planners. The policy isn't forever; it's scaffolding, like training wheels, meant to come off when brains are stronger at filtering distractions. If we believe focus is a skill, we should protect time to practice it.

Text 2 (Realistic Fiction): Jae felt for the rectangle in his pocket, then remembered the morning drop box and the click of the lock. In math, the teacher wrote three steps on the board—factor, plug, check—and Jae stared at the worksheet, wishing for the app that whispered hints. He glanced at the window and counted clouds. At lunch, he borrowed the office phone and left a message for his mom about practice. By last period, something had shifted. Without the screen's pull, the room was louder, then quieter, then he heard his own pencil. He caught himself finishing the problem before the timer. After the bell, he walked past the box and didn't reach for it right away. The hallway felt longer and lighter, like the sound inside his head had taken a breath.

Which response best compares the two texts' perspectives on a school phone-lock policy?

Text 1: Journal, 1935—Texas Panhandle. The day began with a copper sun and ended with a wall of dirt rolling across the pasture like a slow, dark wave. By noon, grit found every seam in the house. We stuffed rags under doors and wet tea towels to tie over our mouths. Mother pinned a damp sheet over the baby's crib. When the sky went black, the henhouse lantern looked like a star swallowed whole. After the wind quit, we shoveled drifts from the kitchen floor. Mr. Garza came by with a bucket brigade idea so the well wouldn't choke. Neighbors shared what little water they had. We talk sometimes about heading east, but my father says roots grow best in hard ground. We are not quitters, even if the wind thinks it can scrape us away.

Text 2: Contemporary article. A major Texas city entered Stage Two drought restrictions this month after rainfall stayed far below average and reservoir levels dropped. Sprinklers are limited to two days a week, and crews patrol for leaks along aging mains. The city offers rebates for native plants and soil mulching, and a student robotics club recently tested low-cost sensors to detect outdoor overwatering. Officials stress that conservation is not only for emergencies; long stretches of dry, hot weather are the new normal. Neighborhood workshops teach residents how to capture rain, fix dripping faucets, and rethink thirsty lawns. While the measures may seem small, numbers add up: if every household saved just a few gallons each day, millions of gallons would remain in storage by summer's end. Water scarcity, once a rural story, now reshapes city habits and budgets.

Which statement best compares the two texts?

Text 1: Fiction scene. On the first Saturday of summer, we spread drop cloths under the highway overpass and popped open cans the color of mangos and marigolds. Ms. Rivera sketched the outline: a river curling past market baskets like the ones my abuela used to carry. My job was blending the dawn into the water, pulling orange into blue until it glowed. Cars thundered above us, but down here we swapped stories—about the bakery that closed, about the neighbor who teaches cumbias in the park. When the sun shifted, our wall began to look like us: vendors, families, lotería cards, a tiny stray dog tucked in the corner. By the time we cleaned our brushes, strangers had stopped to stare. I felt taller walking home, as if the mural stitched our block together and wrote my name without letters.

Text 2: Opinion column. Public art is not a luxury; it's an investment that pays off in visible and invisible ways. In cities across Texas, community murals and sculptures have reduced graffiti, increased foot traffic for local shops, and given young people chances to learn skills from working artists. These projects turn blank concrete into landmarks people protect. They also create jobs—from paint suppliers to food trucks that gather near unveiling events. Critics argue that funds should go only to roads and pipes, but a thriving neighborhood needs spirit as well as infrastructure. When residents help design a mural or mosaic, they see themselves reflected in a place, and that sense of ownership improves safety and upkeep. If we want streets that feel welcoming, we should budget for art the same way we budget for lights.

Which statement best compares the two texts?

Text 1: Personal narrative. By midmorning the air felt heavy, and the radio kept repeating the same names of towns along the coast. Dad marked our windows with tape while my brother and I slid plywood into place, the hammer ringing like a metronome. We filled the bathtub, packed Grandma's recipe cards between photo albums, and tucked the cat carrier behind the cooler. Mrs. Patel from next door brought over a sack of ice and the kind of calm that settles people down. When the phone alert buzzed—evacuate now—we locked the door and drove past the bait shop and the school where we'd had our last pep rally. The sky was the color of a bruise. Even with the line of cars and the restless cat, I felt strangely steady. We had a plan, and the plan was moving.

Text 2: Preparedness guide. Before hurricane season, build a kit with water, shelf-stable food, a first-aid supply, copies of important documents, and medications for people and pets. Know your evacuation routes in advance, and practice meeting places with family members. Monitor official updates and leave early if local authorities recommend evacuation; roads can flood quickly. If you shelter at home, move to an interior room away from windows during high winds and be ready for power outages. Secure outdoor items, and use generators outdoors only. After the storm, avoid standing water and downed lines, and check on neighbors who may need help. Planning reduces stress: when everyone knows what to do, it's easier to stay safe and help others. Community networks—schools, faith groups, and neighborhood teams—can organize supply drives and share accurate information.

Which statement best compares the two texts?

Text 1: Poem. We found a lot that the city forgot—chain-link ribs, a hardpan heart— and pressed our palms to its pulse. With borrowed shovels, we cracked the gray, rooted hope into stubborn seams. Tomato vines climbed the fence like curious kids. Bees stitched yellow thread between blossoms. Someone hauled a rain barrel; someone else a bent hose. By August, the heat rose like a second sun, yet leaves made their own shade, and neighbors drifted in— the mail carrier, the night-shift nurse, a man with stories and seeds. We learned the slow language of watering cans, hands opening, closing. Concrete softened under creeping thyme. On harvest day, we passed paper bags, laughing at green stains on our knees, watching a sparrow balance on the scarecrow's sleeve. What was a vacant lot began to remember our names— not with signs, but with sweetness on our tongues.

Text 2: Research report. A multi-city study examined the effects of community gardens on neighborhood well-being. Researchers recorded changes in temperature, food access, and social interaction across dozens of sites. Blocks with active gardens showed lower afternoon surface temperatures compared with nearby paved lots. Surveys found that participants reported eating more fresh produce during the growing season and meeting neighbors they had not known before. In several cities, garden groups partnered with schools to host workshops on composting and pollinators. While challenges included securing long-term land access and funding, the overall data suggest that small green spaces deliver measurable benefits for public health and urban ecosystems. The report recommends city planners identify unused parcels for cultivation and support training programs so residents can start and maintain gardens that reflect their community's needs.

Which statement best compares the two texts?