Please see the attachment.
Read the passage. Then answer the questions.
Faizula Turner was too good for this world. At least, that’s what he’d been told on several occasions: after waiting for two hours in a parking lot for the owner of a car that was parked way too close to his own so that he could confess he had left an almost invisible scratch on its rearview mirror, or after working overtime to cover for a new coworker who had dropped the ball on a project, or after offering to help the friend of a friend move. Loved ones often advised him that he should stop being so kind to strangers. None of those strangers was going to send a card to his deathbed, thanking him for sacrificing his own plans for someone else’s sake.
He was sitting on a flight from Nashville to Chicago, trying to find a spreadsheet with housing regulations and standards in the innards of his laptop and smartphone, ruing the fact that he couldn’t use the Internet mid-flight, and starving because it was Ramadan. He hadn’t had a chance to break his fast yesterday evening, and he had long since decided to take the religion of his mother seriously. Being a tall man, he was tightly cramped in his seat. Then the woman in front of him jammed her seat back with a sudden jerk, snapping his laptop shut. He considered reclining his seat back as well, but decided against it because he didn’t want to inconvenience the person behind him. Meanwhile, the flight attendants were slowly backing down the aisle and delivering refreshments. They were reciting their incantatory supplication over and over: “Can I get you something to drink? Salty snack or fruit? Can I get you something to drink? Salty snack or fruit?”
He looked at the snacks. The salty ones were just what you’d expect: little bags of pretzels. But the fruit snack was something he’d never seen on a flight before, and he could have sworn it was a mockery intended for him. It was a clear, sealed plastic bag full of sweaty, green grapes and—cruelly—pitted dates, the food he was supposed to break fast with at sundown. To take his mind off the indignity of those dates, he tried once again to search for some keyword that might locate the spreadsheet in his email inbox, but he couldn’t find anything.
Faizula’s flight landed 20 minutes late and then sat on the runway for an extra half hour before it finally pulled into the terminal. He let at least 30 people pass before he politely wedged himself far enough into the aisle to be taken seriously and get his backpack out of the overhead compartment. He made his way as quickly as possible from the gangway into the terminal to a seat in a corner where he could get online. He searched through the list of wireless signals for one that wasn’t password protected and found the airport guest network. He clicked on it and opened his browser. A window popped up.
Welcome to Airport Wireless Services. You have four hours of free wireless internet. Click to read our terms and conditions. Faizula clicked on the button and then scrolled through the endless list of indecipherable legal clauses until he came to the button that said, Click to agree. He clicked on the button, and the entire screen turned a strange color, somewhere on the spectrum between orange and red.A small window popped up. Thank you for agreeing to our terms and conditions, it said. As soon as he moved the cursor, however, that window disappeared, and another popped up in its place: You have reached the end of your four-hour wireless session. We hope you have enjoyed the convenience of our service! He furrowed his brow and pinched his eyelids together and was about to lose his composure when he heard a timid voice. He couldn’t understand the words because they had been so quiet.
“Sorry?” he asked.
“Would you like a rose?” the voice said again. Faizula looked up and saw a young man of about 25 years, wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, untucked, with two buttons open, loose grey pants and a pair of fisherman’s sandals. He had a canvas satchel on one shoulder, and in his hand were several roses, bundled at the stems in a wet paper towel.
“Oh. No. No, thanks. I’m just in town on business. Don’t really need a rose.” The young man’s long brow and his dog-like eyes drooped a bit. He nodded slightly and then shuffled away. Faizula looked down at his laptop again and tried to get back online. But then he glanced back at the young man, and saw him slowly approach two or three other people and clearly get rejected each time. So Faizula packed his laptop into his backpack and strolled over to the young man. He tapped him on the shoulder, and the the young man turned around, clearly surprised.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take one of those roses.” He gave the young man an almost apologetic grin. “How much do I owe you?”
“Two dollars.” Faizula looked into his wallet and saw only a five-dollar bill. He handed it to the young man and told him to keep the change. The young man’s sallow eyes brightened and he smiled widely, exposing a chipped front tooth.
“Thank you so much,” the young man said as he began to stroll away again to ply his wares, “and Ramadan Mubarak.”
“Ramadan Mubarak,” Faizula responded, somewhat taken aback. Then the man looked at the clock on the arrivals monitor and turned back around.
“It’s one minute to sundown,” the man said. “Would you break the fast with me?” He laid the bundle of roses on a seat and pulled out a plastic box full of dates and grapes from his satchel.