Question: A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words! What was very comfortable for Patch? - the hollowed out canoe at the edge of the lake - his bench on Central Park - not enough information - his drey in an old oak tree
Answer: his drey in an old oak tree

Question: Shortly after five, the hospital called. More precisely, the emergency room phoned to ask if Ray had a bed. Ray pretended to consult his admission log, just as he always did. The nightly hospital call meant one of three things: the chemical dependency floor was full (highly unlikely), the individual in question had fallen under the hospital's "one treatment episode every three months" sanction (also known as the Black List, and only moderately unlikely), or the prospective client had no insurance (in Ray's experience, very likely). The folks at the hospital knew, as did Ray, that federal law prohibited him from turning away individuals requesting detoxification services if he had an open bed. The hospital was generous enough to spring for a cab voucher for the intoxicate. In Ray's experience as well, overnight admissions were less interested in detox than in free food, a free bed and complimentary meds. For his two hour paperwork investment and aggravation, he would receive the benefit of knowing the client slept until noon then slipped out the side door and into another binge. Any bills for service generated for the brief stay would return in a week or so stamped "No Such Address" or simply "Return to Sender". On average, the clients of addictions services managed to muster a raging 25% of them who would ever pay a dime toward their bill. The night shift admission payment percentages were a quarter of that quarter in good years. Thus, the frequent calls from the hospital. They had little better luck in getting good addresses (or even with those, a client who stayed sober long enough to give a shit). No one relished treating the uninsured and uninsurable. It was fiscal suicide. The hospital was perfectly willing to let the local experts in deadbeats handle the workload. Tonight, Ray could tell them no. He liked telling them no, especially when it was the truth. What is Ray's job title? - Service manager - not enough information - Admissions clerk - Social worker
Answer: not enough information

Question: Today, many academics feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. They’re under huge pressure to write and publish but an ever-growing mountain of teaching and admin is stopping them doing just that. Our research finds that whilst nobody is immune to these pressures, some academics cope better than others – and that’s because over the years, they’ve developed personal “systems” to help them write. We recently carried out in-depth interviews with 23 scholars across the UK, Europe and the US. We deliberately chose a diverse group so as to not make any assumptions based on age, seniority, or research background. Academic experience ranged from six months to 27 years and subject fields ranged from social sciences, economics, business, and arts. We did this as part of our user research to inform the development of Prolifiko – a digital coaching tool for writers. Whilst every academic had developed a writing productivity system personal to them, we found there were six common “habits” that the most prolific (and generally least stressed) academics tended to use. 1. They “time-block” their writing in advance Scheduling – booking in time to write in advance – was the single most common habit of our writers. It didn’t appear to matter what type of time-blocking method a scholar chose to use or how lengthy a writing session was. Some blocked out long periods of time on sabbatical, whilst others preferred to block out short, regular times throughout the day or across a week. What seemed to matter far more was the act of planning, as this mentally prepared the individual for writing – and so made the process easier and less stressful. “When I need to write I block out time. I’m lucky in that I can work from home – I block out a couple of straight days to do the writing and I plan it in beforehand. I couldn’t really write in any other way than blocking out that time.” How long had the academics surveyed been teaching? - 100 years - several years - 10 minutes - not enough information
Answer:
several years