The wind started before dawn, moaning across the empty fields, and by breakfast the sky had turned the color of rust. Grit hissed under the door even though Mama had packed rags into the cracks. I could taste dust between my teeth. Daddy's ledger sat open beside a letter from the bank, the edges already brown with dirt. 'No harvest, no payment,' he said, and didn't look at me. Outside, Mr. Salazar's truck coughed to life, a mattress tied on top with rope. They were headed west, he'd told us, where the air was said to be clean and the orchards still green. Another cloud rolled in, darker than any we'd seen, swallowing the fence line and the road. Our chickens went silent. Mama brushed the keys of the piano once, as if saying goodbye, then closed the lid. 'We can get bus fare if we sell it,' she whispered. When the sky finally paled, we wrapped our faces with handkerchiefs and carried the piano bench to the yard, a sign propped against it. I knew then that our farm - our whole life in the Panhandle - was already blowing away.

Which statement best explains how the setting influences the family's decision and the plot in this scene?

On Saturday, the plaza filled with the usual braid of sounds: drums from the marching group practicing by the gazebo, the sizzle of gorditas at my grandmother's stand, and the chatter that slid easily from Spanish to English and back again. A flyer taped to the lamppost announced the city's new vendor rules, but most of the words were in English, and the abuela who sold pan dulce kept asking what it meant. When a patrol car pulled up and an officer began explaining the permit deadline, half the crowd leaned in, confused. My grandmother's hand found my elbow. 'Mija,' she said, 'help us understand.' I'd translated a hundred times in smaller moments - at the clinic, at the pharmacy - but never with so many faces watching. The officer kept talking, slow and louder, like volume could build a bridge. I took a breath, stepped between them, and repeated his words in Spanish, then carried the vendors' questions back in English. By the time the church bells rang the hour, we had a plan for a group application on Monday. My voice was shaking, but the plaza sounded like one conversation instead of two.

Which statement best explains how the cultural setting shapes the narrator's actions and the outcome?

In October, a paper sign with the word QUARANTINE in red letters appeared on the Garcias' front door, and suddenly our block went quiet. School closed two days later. The streetcar still rattled by, but we watched it from our windows like it was a parade we couldn't join. Mama tied a scarf over her face and measured out broth for Mrs. Garcia, who coughed so hard we could hear it through the walls. 'Leave it on the porch,' Mama said. 'No visiting.' I had promised to bring Elena notes from algebra, but now I wasn't allowed to pass the threshold. I copied the lessons anyway and slipped them into an envelope with a sprig of pressed bluebonnets. At dusk, I crept over and set the packet beside the soup jar, then tugged the bell cord with my sleeve. Elena's shadow moved behind the glass. She lifted her hand but didn't open the door. I waved and backed away until my heels found the curb. It felt strange to care for someone from so far apart, but the distance was the only kindness we were allowed.

Which statement best explains how the historical setting influences what the narrator can do for Elena?

By late afternoon the snowmelt had turned the creek into a shouting thing, tearing past the mill and licking at the footbridge. I had the pharmacy's parcel - a glass vial wrapped in cotton and a doctor's note folded on top - and three miles to cover before dark. Ms. Whitlow's boy was burning with fever up the ridge. When I reached the crossing, the center plank had already floated away, bumping like a loose tooth against the ropes. On the far bank, a flock of cedar waxwings hopped in the alder, as if the river wasn't trying to rewrite the map. I considered the cart road toward the highway, twice as long but higher ground, then looked back at the water heaving around the rocks. If I slipped, the medicine would be gone, and maybe I would be too. I cut uphill, into the pines, where the slope was steeper but the soil held. My boots filled with meltwater, and the shadows between the trunks stitched themselves together. When I finally came down to the ridge trail, the creek's roar was softer, and the long way had become the only way to arrive at all.

Which statement best explains how the physical environment affects the narrator's choices and the plot?

In the piney woods outside Kilgore in 1931, iron derricks sprouted like a forest within the forest. Trucks snorted along the dirt road, churning it to soup; flares hissed all night, and the courthouse posted new hours to calm the crush of lease hunters. When the bank advanced Papa's mortgage deadline to noon—"closing early, on account of the rush"—he saddled up, only to find the road blocked by a jackknifed tanker. "I can't get there in time," he said, handing Ruby an envelope fat with crumpled bills. The land agent would sell their pasture to someone else if they missed the payment. Ruby didn't argue. She cut through the maze of pumpjacks, boards laid over mud like narrow bridges. Grease spat. Men shouted for her to keep to the planks. Twice she slipped, catching herself on a ladder slick with oil. The courthouse steps were crowded, the clerk already swinging a CLOSED sign toward the glass. Ruby wedged her hand through with the envelope before the sign settled. The stamp thudded. She sagged with relief as a driller's whistle blew, drowning out her breath.

How does the oil-boom setting directly influence Ruby's actions and the plot in this scene?

In the winter of 1932, the breadline snaked around the block twice before dawn. Frost laced the stoop of Eli's tenement; the coal bin was a hollow echo. Mama pinned yesterday's notice above the sink—Rent due tomorrow—and folded her hands so tight her knuckles whitened. "The relief office gives out fifty tickets at six," she said. "After that, nothing till next week." The streetlamp hummed. Eli had a school spelling bee in the morning, but he pulled on his sister's wool cap and his father's threadbare coat. "I'll hold our place," he said, picturing the line unraveling without him. Outside, men stamped their feet, newspapers wrapped around shoes like extra soles. Someone passed a dented thermos; the steam smelled like barley. The wind worried the posters on the wall. A boy his age coughed into his elbow and curled on a step. Eli sat beside the door, back against cold brick, and counted the breaths to six o'clock. He knew if he left, the landlord's knock would come before help did. When the clerk finally slid the window open, Eli's fingers were so numb he nearly dropped the ticket he'd waited all night to keep.

How does the historical setting shape Eli's decision and move the story forward?

Marisol's town braided two flags into the same breeze. Paper flowers bobbed over the river, and dancers in bright skirts stamped dust into the parade route. Tonight's community festival would close the international bridge at nine, just like every year, and Abuela needed Marisol home to help set out candles for the family altar before the first song. But the robotics qualifier in San Antonio meant the team van left at five in the morning from the north side of town, and Coach had warned that if anyone missed the van, they were out. When her cousin's quince practice ran long and the announcer promised fireworks on the water at eight-thirty, Tía clicked her tongue. "Stay for one song," she begged. Marisol watched the line of headlights inch toward the bridge; she knew once the gates swung shut, she wouldn't cross back until dawn. Mr. Reyes from next door honked—he was leaving early to beat the closure. Marisol hugged her aunt, apologized, and climbed in, cheeks hot as the music followed them to the ramp. At home, Abuela met her on the porch with a box of candles and a nod that felt like permission.

How does the cultural and geographic setting influence Marisol's behavior and the plot?

The fire started as a smear of orange on the ridge and then found the wind. Pines whooshed, shedding sparks that spun like angry stars. The town sat in a bowl with one road out over the river bridge; sheriff cars rolled through with loudspeakers telling people to go now. Lina had already packed two duffels when she remembered Mrs. Hawthorne up on Mill Spur, who never drove after dark. The radio crackled: the bridge might close if embers crossed. Her mother looked at the clock and at the map spread on the table. "The ridge trail will keep you above the smoke," she said, drawing a line with her finger, "but it's longer." Down in the street, trucks coughed, dogs barked, and the air tasted like a campfire swallowed wrong. Lina pulled on a scarf and headlamp and cut behind the school, climbing until the houses fell away. The wind pushed from the west, carrying the fire toward the river and that single exit. By the time she reached Mrs. Hawthorne's porch, ash was drifting onto the welcome mat. "We're walking out," Lina said, offering her arm. "The bridge may not wait for us."

Which statement best explains how the physical setting shapes Lina's choices and the plot?