Write the right answer to the question based on the context passage.

The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. Question: Who might have been forming judgments about the speaker?
attendents

In the 1970s I was a student nurse in psychiatry. I was rostered to the brain injury ward in a chronic hospital, where the patients had severe brain damage from tumours, car accidents, strokes, metabolic diseases, degenerative diseases, and alcoholism. Only about half were ambulant. Most had severely impacted recent and long term memories. They could not bathe or feed themselves. The majority sat most of the day in chairs lined along the sides of the day room. They were spoon-fed meals and wheeled into the toilet.
One of those patients was Connie S. She was maybe 55 yrs old and she spent a lot of the day screaming in her chair. She could not speak, walk, or cooperate. One nurse was very impatient with her and once I heard that nurse say to her, "You think the water is too hot, do you? Then have it cold!" as she bathed her in cold water. I remember standing up for her to that nurse.
I worked that ward for over a year and then, one day, just like that, Connie S. woke up. She suddenly began speaking and walking. She apparently remembered most of the things had had happened to her in the ward. Soon, she walked right out of that ward and never came back. As she left, she appeared dignified and so happy, so relieved.
I was too junior at that stage to know what her diagnosis was supposed to have been, but no-one expected her ever to leave. No-one left that ward. It was the end of the line. I remember being really glad that I had stood up for her and thinking how ashamed the nasty nurse must have been.
It is now many years later and I often think of this woman and wonder how she fared in her post-hospital life. Her name is not common, but every so often I meet people with the same name and ask them if they know of a relative to whom this happened, but, so far, no-one has known of her. Question: Who is the narrator of this episode?
The former student nurse who stood up for the 55-year-old woman, Connie

Went straight from a facility that deals with homeless children (492 1st Ave, Manhattan, New York) to the extreme outskirts of Queens near Kennedy Airport about 20 miles away.
It was winter and I had no coat. I had my book bag and my sole Trader Joe's bag of clothing and was loaded into a van with three social workers. During the long drive in traffic, I fell asleep, so waking up at my new home, I couldn't make out any street signs and the numbering on the houses did not indicate whether I was in a home in the Bronx or Eastern Queens (which share the same street numbering in certain instances).
My foster parents showed me my room and left a plate of food on the table. They barricaded themselves in their bedroom quite like how pilots barricade themselves behind the fortified cockpit door. However, my room didn't have a lock, and neither did the bathroom. There were bars on my windows with a view of a church parking lot. I took great care to avoid waking a significantly older teen (I was 14, so he must have been 19–20) sleeping on the other bed. I heard two other kids (my foster siblings) in the other room playing music and giggling loudly at 3 in the morning. At 4 in the morning, my foster father started reading the Quran pretty loudly, and then he goes back to bed.
In the morning, my foster parents are gone. My foster siblings are all sleeping. I got up at 7, but I don't know how far I am from my high school, what buses/train will take me there, and still don't know anything about anything about my new home. I don't even know the names of those I'm relegated to living with. The unnerving strangeness and disorientation hat comes with knowing that your life has changed and the culture shock that comes with that is so scary and desensitizes you on that first day. Question: Who showed him the room?

his foster parents

