In August, when Texas lawns fade to brittle beige, our thirstiest habit quietly drains our future: endless grass. Every summer, neighborhoods sprinkle thousands of gallons onto carpets of St. Augustine that give little shade, swallow much water, and wither anyway. We can do better. Replace water-hungry lawns with native plants—sage, yucca, prickly pear, and buffalo grass—that evolved for our heat. Cities that swapped turf for native beds cut outdoor use by a third while blooming with color and birds. Upfront costs? Less than a season of constant watering and mower repairs, and rebates already help. Imagine sidewalks lined with purple sage buzzing with bees instead of sprinklers hissing at noon. Imagine stormwater caught by deep roots instead of racing into gutters. We call ourselves good neighbors; it's time to act like it. Ask your HOA to loosen lawn rules. Vote for city incentives. Start with a small corner of your yard. A cooler, wiser Texas doesn't require a miracle—just a shovel, a plan, and the will to plant for the climate we actually live in.

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When food scraps go to a landfill, they're buried without air and break down slowly, releasing methane, a powerful greenhouse gas. Municipal composting programs give those leftovers a different path. First, residents separate items like vegetable peels, coffee grounds, and yard trimmings into green bins. Trucks collect the material and deliver it to a compost facility, where workers remove any contaminants, such as plastic or metal. The mix is then piled in long rows called windrows or placed in aerated containers. Oxygen and moisture are carefully balanced, and the material is turned regularly so microbes can do their work. Over weeks, the temperature rises, killing many weed seeds and harmful bacteria. As the process continues, the pile cools and turns into a dark, crumbly substance rich in nutrients. Cities often test the finished compost and use it in parks or make it available to residents for gardens. The result is a closed loop: waste becomes a resource that improves soil, reduces erosion, and helps plants retain water, all while keeping methane out of the atmosphere.

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Last summer, as reservoirs across Central Texas sank into cracked bowls, many of us hoped for a lucky storm. Hope is not a policy. If we want steady taps and thriving neighborhoods, we must treat water like the precious resource it is. Families can start small: fix leaks, replace thirsty lawns with native grasses, and run dishwashers only when full. Cities should upgrade old pipes that lose thousands of gallons a day and reward builders who install efficient fixtures. Farmers and ranchers can benefit from drip irrigation and soil-moisture sensors that save water and money. Schools can host conservation challenges that turn good habits into community pride. None of these steps require sacrificing our way of life; they protect it. Texas has weathered droughts before, but longer dry spells are becoming more common. The longer we postpone action, the more expensive it becomes. Let's stop gambling with rain clouds and choose solutions we control. Call your council member, support water-wise policies, and make changes at home this week. Our future shouldn't depend on a forecast.

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When storms or power outages sweep through, a basic emergency kit turns panic into a plan. First, choose a sturdy, portable container such as a backpack or plastic bin. Next, pack water—one gallon per person per day for at least three days—along with shelf-stable foods like granola bars, canned beans, and fruit cups. Then add a manual can opener, a flashlight with extra batteries, and a small first-aid pouch with bandages, antiseptic wipes, and any needed medications. After that, include a whistle, a multipurpose tool, and copies of important documents sealed in a waterproof bag. Don't forget hygiene items like soap, hand sanitizer, and a roll of trash bags for waste. If you have pets, add food, a leash, and a small blanket. For comfort, tuck in a deck of cards and a notebook with a pen. Finally, label the container and place it near your home's main exit. Check the kit every three months to replace expired items and adjust for seasons—warm layers in winter, sunscreen in summer. By preparing now, you give yourself time, choices, and calm when you most need them.

Which textual feature best supports the author's purpose of instructing readers on building an emergency kit?

I signed up for the talent show on a dare and spent the next week wishing I hadn't. My guitar buzzed like a mosquito, and my fingers tangled every time I tried the chorus. On Tuesday, I almost quit. Then I remembered my grandmother's rule: "If you hate it, practice for ten more minutes." I set a timer. Ten minutes turned into thirty, then an hour, then a calloused groove on my index finger that looked like a tiny shield. By Thursday, the buzzing was gone, and Ms. Patel from the library showed me a trick for switching chords without looking. I still wasn't perfect. My stomach still wobbled when I pictured the stage lights. But when Friday arrived, I breathed with the opening note and pretended I was playing in our living room. I missed one chord, grinned, and kept going. When the last note faded, the clapping sounded like rain on a roof—steady and surprising. I didn't win a ribbon, but I left with something bigger: proof that trying again changes the ending.

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The Rio Grande has carried our stories longer than any school bus route or family road trip. I learned to skip stones there, counting the hops like heartbeats. When we toss a bottle, the current remembers; when we bend to pick one up, so does the neighborhood watching. Last spring, three dozen volunteers collected 900 pounds of trash in two hours—proof that small hands make big change. This Saturday, we'll meet at the city park, but the real destination is a cleaner river. Bring gloves and a friend; if one person lifts a bag, a crew can clear a bend, and by noon we will leave the river cleaner than we found it. We are not waiting for perfect; we are showing up together. If you can't join the cleanup, choose your stretch of the bank and adopt it—one bag a week, one promise kept. The river gave us a place to learn, laugh, and cool our summers; now it's our turn to give back. Let's be the kind of neighbors the water remembers. Your two hands matter.

Which sentence best advances the central message that collective action can protect Texas waterways?