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

I was fencing wire at Flat Broke Acres and trying to tighten up the wire a bit. I lost the grip of the fencing wire and the pliers smacked me in the mouth.
This is what I hit myself in the mouth with. The curved end glance off my left front central incisor.
It hurt some, my lips were lacerated, I scared my wife when I came in to take a look at it in the mirror but the pain to come was far worse. Tooth was intact thank goodness and was a bit wobbly and I said to myself yup, this could be a problem. A month or two later I hit it again when I was putting a portable step fence panel in the bed of the truck and it bounced and split the bridge of my nose and hit the tooth again. did not break or get displaced. Thank goodness I have a particularly thick head.
Tooth trauma is a strange thing. It can blow up anywhere up to a year later. So almost 6 months later I was flying to a meeting in Orlando and of course the tooth decided to react to changes in atmospheric pressure just so I could experience the exquisite pain of barodontalgia. Kind of pain that makes you want to pry the top of your head off with a pitchfork because it would take your mind off the pain.
Problem was it did not resolve after landing or anytime during the 4 days I was at the meeting. A combo regimen of acetaminophen and ibuprofen manage the pain well enough until I could get home and have it seen to. Pain did not end but the Xray showed no fracture or endodontic lesion. Strange. Then as suddenly as it occurred, the pain ceased. Strange x 2. Snapped another film and there was no pathology. Tooth was vital on pulp testing. So I did nothing more.
I chalked it up to it being a karmic reminder about patients and dental pain as I've never had a cavity let alone a dental abscess. It let me feel your pain. Question: Who hit themselves in the mouth?
narrator

"If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." Question: Who deepened his voice?
Tommy

April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it? Question: Who did the author describe as "a little crazy?":

Walter

