By noon the neighborhood yard sale had thinned, but the quilt still lay folded on our table, its blue stars catching every glance. Evan kept glancing too, tapping a jar labeled Trip Fund. "We need sixty more by three," he said. "The bus deposit is due today." I kept my hands on the quilt the way Abuela used to smooth it at the end of visits. Selling it felt like shutting a door. When a woman asked the price, Evan blurted a number that made my stomach flip. I shook my head. "It's not for sale," I said. Evan's jaw tightened. "You said you'd help," he whispered. "I did," I whispered back, "but not by erasing her." The tension stretched so tight that even the wind seemed to hush. Then I noticed Mr. Patel pushing his silent mower past. "It's the spark plug," he sighed. The idea came like a bird landing. "What if we offer yard work instead of the quilt?" I said. "We can do three lawns before three." Evan stared at the quilt, then at the jar, then nodded. We grabbed rakes. The first bag of leaves thumped like a heartbeat restarting.

Which statement best explains how the characters' motivations influence the plot events and help resolve the conflict?

By afternoon the Gulf had turned the color of pewter, and the wind kept changing its mind. Mama had gone to help at the boardinghouse on Broadway, leaving me to mind Luis. When water began sliding across the street like a second skin, I remembered Mr. Harris's warning: if the tide reaches the steps, move inland. Luis clutched my sleeve. "Marta, the cat!" Our tabby yowled from the shed roof. I wanted to run for the cat, but another wave slapped the porch, higher. Duty crowded out panic. I tied Luis to me with a clothesline, grabbed the handbell from the church box, and rang it door to door. "Come to the boardinghouse - higher floor!" I shouted until my throat burned. Some followed; Mr. Doss shook his head. By dusk the water took the steps and reached for us. The boardinghouse lights winked across a river that used to be Market Street. I kicked our front door off its hinges with a borrowed hammer, laid it flat, and pushed Luis onto it. "Hold tight." We ferried from porch to porch, gathering the ones who'd believed. When we reached the boardinghouse, Mama was waiting at the rail, crying and laughing at once.

How do Marta's motivations shape the events and outcome of the scene?

Clouds boiled over the mesa by noon, yet the air on the canyon floor stayed still as a held breath. Ty kicked a pebble into the dry wash. "Shortcuts save time," he grinned, stepping into the sandy channel. I checked the topo app - bars gone. Coach's briefing echoed: Arroyos flash. High ground, even if slow. I tugged Ty's backpack strap. "Ridge route," I said. "We promised Coach." He rolled his eyes but followed. The first thunder came like a dropped bowling ball. Halfway up the slope, Ty stopped. "This trail is forever. We could've been at the trucks by now." I pointed to the north. A gray curtain sprinted toward us. Wind hit, then the smell of wet dust. The wash we'd left behind turned from beige to brown to roaring. Logs tumbled end over end where we would've been. Ty's jaw set. He grabbed my arm when I slipped on loose shale. "Okay," he said, breathless. "Okay. You were right." We moved along the ridge until the radio crackled back to life. When we reached the lot, Coach counted us twice and squeezed my shoulder. Ty didn't say much, but he stayed on the ridge the whole walk back.

Which choice best shows how character motivation influences the conflict and its resolution?

By August, the cracks in our yard were wide enough to hide marbles. The city cut watering to once a week, and the radio kept saying "extreme drought." Dad stood under the old pecan with a hose in his hand, knuckles white. "My grandfather planted this after he came back from the war," he said. "I'm not watching it die." I pictured Mrs. Linares next door, her grass gone to dust, the citation taped to her mailbox. "We'll get fined," I said. "And it isn't fair." That night I filled buckets with rinse water from the sink and the tub. I lugged them to the pecan and poured slowly, keeping the soil dark under the mulch. In the morning Dad noticed the damp circle and narrowed his eyes. "You watered?" I told him about the buckets, about fairness, about the fine. He rubbed the tree's bark with his thumb the way he does with worry-creases on his boots. Then he nodded toward the shed. "Help me rig the barrel to the gutters," he said. "We'll catch what we can. We'll share with Mrs. Linares, too." The hose went back on its hook, and the tree's leaves sighed in a breeze.

How do the characters' motivations drive the plot events and help resolve their disagreement?

At the regional maker fair, Lucia tightened the last screw on the robotics club's prototype while Dev read the safety checklist aloud for the third time. Their advisor, Mr. Patel, reminded them that the stability routine was untested. Lucia, who had been overlooked for team lead last semester, wanted the audience to see her design climb the ramp. When the judges paused at their table, she whispered, "Run Sequence Delta," and tapped the tablet. The robot lurched, scaled half the incline, then shuddered and pinned its own wheel against the frame. A collective groan erupted. Dev snapped, "We should've kept Beta." Mr. Patel reached for the power switch, but Lucia pulled her hand back and owned it: "My call. Give me ninety seconds." She disabled the risky routine, restored the conservative settings Dev preferred, and rerouted power to the clutch she'd added last night. The robot eased backward, freed the trapped wheel, and completed a modest but smooth climb. The tension between Lucia and Dev softened as he nodded. Later, when a judge asked about the mishap, Lucia explained her choice and the fix, turning a near-disaster into a demonstration of judgment.

Which statement best explains how Lucia's motivations influence the events and the resolution of the conflict?

By July, the stock pond was a cracked bowl behind Elena's family ranch house in West Texas. Cruz said they should sell her 4-H steer before it suffered, but Elena shook her head. She'd trained him since February, and she wasn't letting a dry spell decide for them. After chores, she spread old survey maps on the kitchen table and found a forgotten windmill on an abandoned lease road. The next morning they biked out and heard faint creaks—still drawing water. Ms. Garza, who owned the parcel now, watched from her fence line. Elena offered to mend her downed wire in exchange for pumping rights, and Ms. Garza agreed. When a neighbor, Pete, rolled up with his tank and announced he'd fill first and fast, Cruz bristled. Elena, jaw tight, suggested a rotation: thirty minutes per ranch, twice a day, with them fixing the gate and keeping the path clear. Pete eyed the mended wire and the line already forming behind him, then nodded. That evening, the steer nosed a fresh trough while Cruz admitted he'd been ready to give up. Elena didn't gloat—she checked the clock and set the timer for their next turn.

How do Elena's motivations shape both the drought conflict and the way it's resolved?

On the eve of Fiesta, the panadería's mixer gave a grinding cough and stopped. Papá rubbed his temples and said they'd have to order conchas from a distributor or miss the morning rush. Sofi stared at the flour-dusted photo of Abuela on the wall and felt heat rise in her chest. Abuela always said a pan dulce carried the baker's handprint, even if no one could see it. Sofi rolled up her sleeves. She called her cousin to help, warmed the butter, and mixed by hand in a wide bowl, folding and resting the dough while Papá checked the register. Without the mixer, their timing was off; the first tray proofed too long. Sofi adjusted, lowering the oven heat and swapping racks mid-bake. By dawn, the air smelled like cinnamon and orange zest. A line curled around the door. Papá broke a concha and tasted, then glanced at Sofi's flour-streaked smile. "We'll fix the mixer," he said, "but we won't replace your hands." He moved the distributor's brochure to the trash. The argument softened into relief as they slid another tray into the oven, the shells cracking just right.

Which analysis best shows how character motivation drives the plot and resolves the disagreement?

Alina studied the map and pointed at the slower bend in the river. "We'll make camp before dark if we stay here." Nate, jittery from watching rafting videos all week, lifted his paddle toward a froth of white where the water narrowed between rocks. "Shortcut," he grinned. Alina hesitated. The sky was clear and the current low, but she'd packed for caution: a throw rope, dry bags, and spare line. Nate dug in first. The canoe bucked as the nose clipped a submerged rock and spun sideways. Cold water poured over the gunwale. They scrambled to the gravel bar, coughing, watching a bag spin downstream. Alina said nothing, just looped the rope around a boulder, tied a quick bowline to Nate's waist, and coached him as he waded. He snagged the bag; together they ferried the canoe to quieter water and bailed. The silence between them thinned as Nate exhaled, "My bad. I wanted to prove I could do it." Alina nodded, handed him the map, and traced the calmer channel. They paddled on in rhythm, packs secure, the argument washed downriver with the foam.

How do the characters' motivations affect what happens on the river and how the tension is resolved?