6th Grade ELA Quiz: Read Grade Level Literary Nonfiction

Read the passage.

(1) The day our robotics team failed in front of the whole gym, the robot did not explode or burst into flames. It did something worse: it froze. Its wheels stopped, its arm hung in the air, and the timer kept counting down as if it were disappointed in us.

(2) We had built the robot to pick up foam blocks and stack them. During practice, it worked well enough to make us confident, which is another way of saying careless. We stopped testing on the bumpy floor of the gym and kept testing on the smooth tile in the hallway.

(3) At the competition, the robot rolled forward, hit a small ridge in the mat, and tilted just enough to confuse its sensor. The code was supposed to adjust, but it had never “seen” that situation before. Consequently, it made the same wrong decision again and again, like a person repeating a mistake because they refuse to admit it.

(4) Our coach, Ms. Patel, did not yell. She asked us to describe what happened, step by step, as if we were scientists writing a report. When we finished, she said, “Now you have data. Data is not the enemy.”

(5) Back in the classroom, we changed one thing at a time. We raised the sensor, then tested. We slowed the wheels, then tested. The work felt boring compared to the excitement of building, but it was also more honest.

(6) Two weeks later, the robot climbed over the ridge without hesitation. I still remembered the silence in the gym, but it no longer felt like embarrassment. It felt like a starting point.

The author includes the comparison in paragraph 3 (“like a person repeating a mistake…”) mainly to:

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) Our bus climbed the mountain road in slow, patient curves, as if it had all day to reach the top. I sat by the window with my sketchbook on my knees, watching the city shrink until it looked like a handful of gray blocks.

(2) We were traveling to a small village where my aunt grew up. My dad called it “home,” even though he had lived in the city for twenty years. He pointed out terraces cut into the hillsides. “Those steps hold the soil,” he said. “Otherwise the rain would pull the mountain apart.”

(3) When we arrived, the air felt thinner and cleaner. A neighbor greeted us with a basket of peaches. Their skin was fuzzy, and they smelled like sunlight. I wanted to draw them right away, but my aunt pulled me toward the courtyard where cousins I had never met were playing a clapping game.

(4) That night, the electricity flickered. The adults didn’t panic. They lit a kerosene lamp and kept talking, their shadows moving across the walls like slow dancers. I listened to stories about my grandfather carrying water up the hill as a boy. In the city, water comes from a tap without effort, so the story sounded almost unreal.

(5) The next morning, my dad took me to the terraces. He didn’t speak much. He just handed me a small hoe and showed me how to loosen the soil around a bean plant. The dirt was dark and crumbly, and it smelled alive. I realized my hands were learning something my mind could not fully explain.

(6) On the ride back, I opened my sketchbook. I drew the terraces as a staircase into the clouds. I also wrote one sentence under the drawing: “Home can be a place you visit and a lesson you carry.”

Question: How is the passage primarily organized?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) The first time I tried out for the soccer team, I wore borrowed cleats that pinched my toes. The field lights made the grass look silver, and my breath came out in short clouds. I kept telling myself that being nervous meant I cared.

(2) During drills, my passes were accurate, but I hesitated whenever I needed to shoot. The goal looked far away, like it had been moved while I wasn’t watching. Coach Rivera noticed. After practice, she called me over. “You’re aiming for perfect,” she said, “so you’re avoiding risk.”

(3) Her words bothered me for days. I wanted to argue that I was just being careful. But in math class, I realized I did the same thing. If I wasn’t sure my answer was right, I didn’t raise my hand. I was protecting myself from being wrong.

(4) The next week, Coach Rivera set up a shooting challenge. Each player had to take ten shots quickly, without overthinking. My first shots flew wide. I felt heat rise in my face. Then I remembered what Coach had said: avoiding risk is still a choice, and it has a cost. I adjusted my footing and kept going.

(5) On shot seven, the ball hit the inside of the post and bounced in. The sound was sharp and satisfying. I didn’t suddenly become fearless, but I understood something important: improvement requires mistakes you can learn from.

(6) When the team list was posted, my name was near the bottom. I didn’t mind. I walked home thinking about that single goal, and how it was built from six misses.

Question: What theme is developed in the passage?

(1) My brother and I learned to skate on the cracked basketball court behind our building. The court was not smooth, and it was not meant for wheels, but it was what we had. Every fall left a mark: on our knees, on our elbows, and on our confidence.

(2) When I was ten, I watched older kids do a simple trick called an ollie. They made their boards rise off the ground as if the wood had suddenly remembered it could fly. I tried to copy them, but my board only clacked and slid away. The older kids laughed, not cruelly, but like it was obvious I did not belong.

(3) That night, I told my brother I was done. "Skating is not for me," I said.

(4) He did not argue. He just pushed my board back toward me. "Then do not skate," he said. "Practice."

(5) The next afternoon, we returned to the court. We broke the trick into parts: foot placement, timing, the snap of the tail. My brother counted out loud, "One, two, three," so I could feel the rhythm. It was frustrating, because progress was invisible at first. Still, after a week, my board lifted for a moment, no higher than a book.

(6) On the day I finally landed an ollie, it did not feel like winning a trophy. It felt like unlocking a door I had been pushing on the wrong way. I looked at the cracked court and realized it had been a teacher, not an obstacle.

The passage is primarily organized by

Read the passage.

(1) My brother calls me “the human GPS,” but that title was not earned in a car. It was earned on foot, in the museum downtown, where the hallways bend and split like a puzzle. Our class visited on a rainy Friday, and our teacher promised we would not get lost. I did not believe her.

(2) At the entrance, a volunteer handed us maps printed on thin paper. The map showed neat lines and clear labels, but the building did not behave that way. The Egyptian exhibit was not directly across from the dinosaur hall, even though the map suggested it was. Instead, there was a staircase that led to a balcony, and a hallway that ended in a door marked “Staff Only.”

(3) While my friends rushed toward the loudest room, I slowed down. I watched for patterns: the color of the carpet changed near the art wing, and the air felt cooler by the planetarium. I also noticed small signs, like arrows near the ceiling, that most people ignored.

(4) “How do you always know where we are?” my friend Sienna asked when we met again by the gift shop. I pointed to a statue in the center of the main floor. “That’s my anchor,” I said. “If I can find it, I can rebuild the whole building in my head.”

(5) On the bus ride back, I realized the museum had taught me something beyond facts about fossils or paintings. It had taught me that navigation is not magic; it is attention. When you pay attention, you stop feeling trapped, even in a confusing place.

As used in paragraph 4, the word “anchor” most nearly means:

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) My uncle’s garage smelled like sawdust and oranges, because he kept a box of fruit near his tools. He said the smell reminded him to take breaks. “If you rush,” he told me, “the wood will punish you.”

(2) I was there to learn how to carve a simple spoon. The block of birch felt smooth and plain, like it had no opinion about what it might become. Uncle Ren drew an outline with a pencil and handed me a carving knife. The blade flashed, and I suddenly understood that this was not an art project. It was a responsibility.

(3) My first cuts were too deep. The spoon’s bowl became thin on one side, and I imagined it cracking the first time it touched soup. I wanted to quit and blame the wood, but Uncle Ren turned the mistake into a lesson. “Now you have a design decision,” he said. “Make the handle slimmer so the whole spoon looks balanced.”

(4) As I carved, the spoon changed slowly, almost politely. Curly shavings piled up like pale ribbons. My hands learned to follow the grain, the direction the wood fibers naturally run. When I cut against the grain, the surface tore and looked fuzzy. When I cut with it, the wood shone.

(5) By late afternoon, the spoon fit my palm. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Uncle Ren rubbed oil into the surface, and the birch darkened, as if it were waking up. “You made something useful,” he said. “That’s different from making something fast.”

(6) At home, I stirred hot cocoa with my spoon and watched the steam rise. The spoon was small, but it carried a larger idea: patience is not just waiting; it is choosing to work carefully when you could hurry.

Question: What theme is developed in the passage?

Read the passage.

(1) My grandfather keeps a small wooden box in the top drawer of his desk. The box is plain, but he opens it like it contains something fragile. Inside are coins from different countries, each one scratched and dull, as if it has traveled farther than the maps in my classroom.

(2) When I was younger, I thought the coins were trophies. I imagined my grandfather collecting them the way people collect baseball cards. But one afternoon, when the power went out and the house went quiet, he finally told me the story.

(3) He grew up in a village where money was scarce, and choices were not always his. At seventeen, he left home to work in a city two days away. He carried one coin from his mother, pressed into his palm like a promise. “It wasn’t worth much,” he said, “but it reminded me someone was waiting.”

(4) Over the years, he saved coins from places he lived or visited: a copper one from the first job that paid him fairly, a silver one from the country where he learned a new language, and a tiny coin with a hole in it from the day he became a citizen. Each coin marked a change, not just a location.

(5) I realized then that the box was not about money at all. It was about time. It was a way to hold onto moments that might otherwise slip away, the way water slips through fingers.

What theme is developed in the passage?

(1) On the first day of seventh grade, I tried to make my new locker behave like a normal door. It did not. The dial spun too fast, and the metal handle refused to lift, even when I pulled with both hands. Behind me, the hallway filled with backpacks and impatient footsteps. I could feel my face heating up.

(2) "You have to stop it exactly on the number," a voice said. It belonged to Mr. Ortiz, the custodian, who was pushing a cart that squeaked like a small bird. He didn't grab the lock from me. Instead, he leaned close and watched my hands. "Right now, you're rushing like the bell is chasing you."

(3) I wanted to say, It is. But I tried again, slower. Turn right to 12. Past it. Back to 12. Left to 36. Right to 7. The numbers felt like a secret code, and for a moment I forgot the crowd. The lock clicked, quietly, as if it had been waiting for me to pay attention.

(4) Mr. Ortiz nodded. "That's the trick," he said. "Most problems get louder when you fight them. They get smaller when you study them." He rolled his cart away, and the squeak returned, steady and calm.

(5) All day, I kept thinking about what he said. In math, when I couldn't understand a word problem, I usually scribbled faster, hoping speed would create answers. In band, when my notes sounded wrong, I played louder, like volume could hide mistakes. Nevertheless, the locker had taught me something simple: slow is not the same as weak.

(6) A week later, I saw a sixth grader yanking at a locker near mine. I almost walked past. Then I heard Mr. Ortiz's squeaky cart in my memory. "Try stopping exactly on the number," I said. The student looked at me like I was speaking another language, but they tried it. The lock clicked. Their shoulders dropped, and they smiled without meaning to.

The author includes Mr. Ortiz's advice in paragraphs 2 through 4 mainly to show that

(1) In 1940, a young chemist named Percy Julian walked into a lab that did not fully welcome him. Many universities and companies in the United States still refused to hire Black scientists. This happened even when their work was excellent. Even so, Julian kept looking for a place where he could do serious research.

(2) Julian had already shown his skill by studying plant chemicals called steroids. These molecules can affect the body in powerful ways. At the time, useful steroids were costly and hard to make in large amounts. Julian believed that chemistry could turn rare medicines into something more common.

(3) At a company in Illinois, Julian worked with a substance from soybeans. Soybeans were cheap and easy to find, which made them a good starting point. After many tries, he found a way to make a steroid used to treat swelling. The work took careful study. A small change in a molecule can create a very different effect.

(4) Success did not erase every problem. When Julian moved his family into a new neighborhood, some people tried to force them out. Instead of leaving, Julian stayed and kept doing his research. He often worked long hours. He did this not because he liked being tired, but because he knew his goal mattered.

(5) Over time, Julian's methods helped make some steroid medicines cheaper. His story shows how science can move forward through hard work. It can happen even when society puts up barriers that have nothing to do with talent.

What is the main idea of the passage?

(1) Our class visited a small aviation museum that used to be an airfield. The building smelled like metal and old paper, and the ceiling lights reflected off polished wings. A guide named Mr. Lewis told us that flight is not only about engines; it is also about shape.

(2) He led us to a table with a model wing. The top of the wing was curved, and the bottom was flatter. "When air moves faster over the top," he explained, "the pressure there can be lower than the pressure below." The difference in pressure creates lift, an upward force.

(3) I had heard the word lift before, but I thought it was something a pilot did with a joystick. Mr. Lewis asked us to hold a strip of paper under our lips and blow across the top. The paper rose, as if it were trying to become a tiny airplane.

(4) Still, Mr. Lewis warned that lift alone is not enough. A plane must also overcome drag, the force that resists motion. Engineers reduce drag by designing smooth surfaces. However, they cannot make a plane too slippery, or it might become hard to control.

(5) As we walked past a real aircraft, I noticed rivets, seams, and small dents. The plane looked strong but not perfect. I realized that engineering is a series of trade-offs, meaning you gain something but give up something else. The museum was teaching me that progress often comes from balancing competing needs.

(6) On the bus ride back, the sky looked different. It was no longer empty space. It was a place filled with invisible forces, pushing and pulling on every wing that passed through.

Which detail from the passage best supports the idea that engineering involves balancing trade-offs?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) My sister keeps a jar of sea glass on her dresser. The pieces are green, brown, and milky white, and each one is smooth enough to rub with a thumb. When sunlight hits the jar, it looks like the ocean has been broken into small, quiet jewels.

(2) She told me sea glass begins as trash—bottles tossed into waves, maybe even on purpose. Over time, the sea turns sharp edges into soft curves. Sand scrapes the glass again and again, and saltwater dulls the shine. Eventually, what was dangerous becomes harmless.

(3) Last summer we visited the beach after a storm. The wind still smelled metallic, and the clouds moved quickly, like they were late for something. We walked along the tide line, where seaweed and shells formed messy borders. My sister bent down and picked up a pale blue piece the size of a coin.

(4) “Imagine where this has been,” she said. I tried. The glass might have traveled from another town, or another country, pushed by currents that do not care about maps. That thought made the beach feel bigger than the sand under my shoes.

(5) As we collected, I noticed something uncomfortable. For every rounded piece of sea glass, there were also fresh shards, still sharp. The storm had uncovered both. My sister separated them into two piles. “We can admire what time changes,” she said, “but we still have to remove what can hurt someone.”

(6) At home, the jar looked beautiful, but I could not forget the sharp pile we threw away. The sea can transform some things, but it does not excuse the original mistake of tossing glass into the water.

Question: According to the passage, what is the purpose of paragraph 5?

In paragraph 5, what can the reader infer about why Jada says, “You made it real”?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) The first time I held my grandmother’s comal—a flat pan used for tortillas—it felt heavier than it looked. The kitchen windows were fogged from boiling beans, and the air smelled like toasted corn and cinnamon. “Don’t rush,” Abuela said, sliding a ball of dough into my palm. I wanted to impress her, so I pressed too hard. The dough tore like wet paper.

(2) Abuela didn’t scold me. She only lifted her eyebrows, the way she does when she’s letting you learn on your own. She showed me how to pat the dough between my hands, turning it in a small circle. “Listen,” she said. At first I thought she meant her words, but she meant the dough. When it was ready, it made a soft, steady thup-thup instead of a sticky slap.

(3) I had always thought tortillas were just food, something you grabbed when you were hungry. That day, Abuela treated each one like a promise. She explained that in her village in Mexico, corn was more than a crop; it was a foundation for daily life. Because corn could be dried and stored, families could plan ahead for weeks. Consequently, tortillas were not only eaten at dinner; they were carried to work, wrapped around eggs for breakfast, and used to scoop up soup.

(4) While the first tortilla puffed on the comal, Abuela told me a story I had heard before, but I listened differently. When she moved to the United States as a teenager, she missed the sound of her mother patting dough. In an unfamiliar place, that sound reminded her that she belonged to someone, even if she felt invisible at school. She learned English quickly, yet she kept Spanish for the kitchen. “Both languages fit,” she said, “like two hands.”

(5) My tortilla did not puff. It stayed flat, and one edge burned. I started to apologize, but Abuela shrugged. “It’s information,” she said. She scraped the dark spot with a spoon and handed it to me anyway. The taste was smoky, not perfect, but not terrible. I realized she wasn’t measuring me by my first try. She was teaching me to analyze what happened and adjust.

(6) The next tortilla puffed like a small pillow. I laughed, surprised by my own joy. Abuela smiled, and for a moment the kitchen felt like a bridge between two places and two times. I understood that the lesson was not only about cooking. It was about patience, memory, and the quiet strength of practicing something until it becomes part of you.

Question: Based on the passage, the reader can conclude that Abuela’s main purpose in teaching the author to make tortillas is to —

Which detail from the passage best supports the idea that the author learns to see nature as a connected system?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) When my cousin Hana visited from South Korea, she brought a small notebook filled with careful handwriting. On the first page she wrote, in English, “Things I want to understand.” The list included “locker culture,” “pep rallies,” and “why people say ‘what’s up’ when they don’t want an answer.”

(2) At school, Hana smiled politely at everything, but I could tell she was working hard. During lunch she studied the room like a scientist observing an experiment. She noticed where different groups sat and how quickly jokes traveled from one table to another. “It’s like a map,” she whispered, “but the roads are invisible.”

(3) After school, we walked past a row of food trucks. Hana pointed to one that sold tacos and asked how the owner learned Spanish. I shrugged, and she wrote something down. “Back home,” she said, “people think America is one language.” She paused. “But I hear many.”

(4) That weekend, my family hosted a welcome dinner. My aunt served bulgogi, and my dad made cornbread. The smells mixed in the kitchen, sweet and smoky at the same time. Hana helped set the table and asked my grandmother about her childhood. My grandmother answered slowly, choosing words like stepping-stones, because she didn’t want Hana to feel lost.

(5) Later, Hana showed me her notebook again. Under “Things I want to understand,” she had added a new line: “How people can belong to more than one place.” I stared at it longer than I expected. I had never written that question, but I realized I had been living it.

(6) When Hana went home, she left the notebook with me. I still keep it in my desk. Sometimes, when I feel stuck between being “from here” and “from somewhere else,” I open it and remember that questions can be a kind of home—portable, honest, and shared.

Question: Why does the author include Hana’s notebook throughout the passage?

(1) The first time I tried out for the middle school soccer team, I wore shoes that were half a size too small. I told myself it did not matter. I was more worried about my lungs, which always seemed to burn before other kids even started sweating.

(2) The coach, Ms. Daniels, ran us through drills that felt like puzzles you had to solve with your feet. "Control before speed," she called. I could hear the ball thumping from every direction, like a room full of fast clocks. When it was my turn to dribble through cones, I rushed and knocked two cones over.

(3) I expected Ms. Daniels to sigh. Instead, she said, "Reset." She pointed to the start line. "Do it again, but slower." I went back, embarrassed. This time I kept my eyes up and took smaller touches. I finished without hitting anything.

(4) After practice, I sat on the bleachers and unlaced my shoes. My toes were red, and my pride felt the same way. Ms. Daniels sat nearby and said, "You know why I did not cut you today?" I shook my head.

(5) "Because you adjusted," she said. "Talent is helpful, but learning is decisive." The word decisive sounded like a door closing, firm and final. I realized she was saying that my choices mattered more than my mistakes.

(6) I bought new shoes with money from mowing lawns. At the next practice, my feet did not hurt, but I still got tired. When I wanted to quit, I heard Ms. Daniels's voice: "Reset." I was not fast yet. Still, I was becoming steady.

Based on the passage, what can the reader infer about why the coach says “Reset” to the narrator?

Read the passage.

(1) In 1910, a young Japanese American named Yuri Kochiyama was born in San Pedro, California, a harbor town filled with the smell of salt and fish. As a child, she watched ships arrive and leave, and she grew up believing that hard work and good behavior would keep her family safe.

(2) That belief cracked in 1942. After Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, the United States government ordered many Japanese Americans to leave their homes and move to incarceration camps. Yuri was in high school when her father was taken away for questioning. He returned sick and quiet, and not long after, he died.

(3) Soon, Yuri and her mother and siblings received instructions to pack only what they could carry. They tagged their suitcases with numbers, like luggage at an airport, except they were not going on vacation. On the train to the camp in Arkansas, Yuri tried to act calm, but she kept noticing how the curtains were pulled down, as if the country did not want to look at what it was doing.

(4) In the camp, Yuri met people who were determined to stay human in a system designed to reduce them to categories. They started schools, wrote newspapers, and held meetings. Yuri listened closely. She began to analyze the difference between law and justice. A law could be official, she realized, and still be unfair.

(5) Years later, after the war ended and she moved to New York, Yuri carried that lesson with her. She joined community groups and spoke out for civil rights, not only for Japanese Americans but for many other communities. She did not treat her past as a secret; instead, she treated it as evidence.

(6) People sometimes asked why she could not “just move on.” Yuri answered that forgetting would be easier, but it would also be dangerous. If a country forgets its mistakes, it may repeat them. Remembering, for her, was a form of responsibility.

What is the main idea of the passage?

Read the passage, then answer the question.

(1) My older brother Mateo calls our neighborhood “a patchwork,” because it is stitched from many languages and smells. On our block alone, you can hear Spanish, Vietnamese, and Somali, sometimes in the same minute. When I was younger, I thought this was normal everywhere.

(2) In seventh grade, I started taking the city bus to school. The first week, I sat rigidly, clutching my backpack like a life jacket. The bus lurched and sighed at each stop. People climbed on with grocery carts, musical instruments, and tired faces. I tried not to stare.

(3) One rainy morning, the bus broke down near a bridge. The driver announced that we would need to wait for another bus. Groans filled the aisle. A man in a suit checked his watch dramatically. A little kid began to cry. I felt my own irritation rising, hot and quick.

(4) Then an older woman stood up and spoke in a calm voice. “We can’t fix the engine,” she said, “but we can fix the mood.” She pulled a pack of crackers from her bag and handed it to the crying child. Someone else offered a tissue. A teenager translated the driver’s update for a passenger who didn’t understand English. Slowly, the bus changed from a trap into a small community.

(5) When the replacement bus finally arrived, I expected everyone to rush. Instead, people moved carefully, letting the child and the older woman go first. I realized that patience wasn’t only a private choice; it could spread. Consequently, a difficult situation became manageable.

(6) Mateo was right about patchwork. The bus ride showed me that a neighborhood isn’t just buildings. It is the way strangers decide, in small moments, whether to treat one another like problems or like people.

Question: How is the passage primarily organized?

(1) The first time I held a microphone, it felt heavier than it looked, like it was full of other people's expectations. Our school cafeteria smelled like pizza and floor wax, and the stage lights made the room seem smaller. I was twelve, and I had signed up to be a student announcer for the multicultural night because my mom said, "Your voice belongs in the room."

(2) Back home, my voice belonged in two places. In the kitchen I spoke Spanish fast, like water pouring from a pitcher. At school I spoke English carefully, as if each word had to pass a test before it could leave my mouth. I didn't think of this as a problem until I had to introduce performers with names from many languages, names that deserved to be said correctly.

(3) The list in my hand was a map of our community: a Vietnamese lion dance group, a Somali poetry reader, a folk band from the Appalachian club. I practiced the names in the hallway, whispering and then starting over when I got stuck. Ms. Patel, the librarian, heard me and stopped. "Try breaking the name into parts," she said, tapping the paper. "And if you make a mistake, correct it. Respect is not the same as perfection."

(4) When the curtain opened, I could see my mom in the second row. She held her phone up, but she wasn't recording yet. She was watching my face. My hands shook, so I pressed my fingers against the note cards to keep them from fluttering. "Good evening," I began, and my voice sounded too thin. Then I remembered Ms. Patel's advice and my mom's sentence, and I tried again, slower. "Good evening, everyone. Welcome."

(5) Halfway through the program, I introduced the Somali poet. I said his last name wrong, and a few people in the front row looked up. My stomach dropped, the way it does when an elevator starts moving. For a second I wanted to rush offstage and let the microphone swallow my mistake. Instead, I took a breath. "I'm sorry," I said, and I repeated his name the way he had told me backstage. The poet nodded once, as if my correction mattered.

(6) Afterward, my mom finally pressed record and laughed at herself. "I forgot," she said. "I was too busy listening." I thought about how many times I had tried to make my voice smaller so it would fit into a single language. That night, I realized something: my voice didn't have to choose. It could translate who I was, even when my hands shook.

Based on the passage, what can the reader infer about why the author corrects the poet's name in paragraph 5?

(1) At the edge of the marsh behind our middle school, the cattails stand like crowded pencils, and red-winged blackbirds balance on them as if the wind is a moving sidewalk. I began visiting the marsh after science club, mostly because it was quieter than the cafeteria and because my teacher, Mr. Duran, said it was "an outdoor laboratory."

(2) The first week of October, I noticed something unsettling: the water level had dropped, leaving a muddy ring around the pond like a bathtub stain. The frogs that usually chirped at dusk were silent. When I stepped closer, my shoe sank, and a sour smell rose from the exposed mud.

(3) Mr. Duran explained that wetlands act like natural sponges. They absorb rainwater and release it slowly, which helps prevent flooding. They also filter pollution, trapping dirt and chemicals so cleaner water can flow downstream. However, he added, a wetland can only do those jobs if it stays wet.

(4) We checked the rain records from the town website. September had been unusually dry, and the creek that fed the marsh was running thin. Meanwhile, a new parking lot was being built uphill. The construction crew had cleared trees and packed down soil, so when it finally rained, the water would rush off the hard ground instead of soaking in.

(5) "So the marsh is losing water from two sides," I said, trying to connect the clues. Mr. Duran nodded. "Less rain coming in, and less land to hold what does fall," he replied. Consequently, the marsh dried faster than it used to.

(6) The next day, I brought a notebook and sat on a fallen log. A dragonfly landed on my pencil and held still, its wings shining like thin glass. I wrote down what I saw, but I also wrote down what I didn't see: fewer frog calls, fewer ripples, fewer footprints of birds. It felt strange to count absences, yet that was part of observing.

(7) By late October, a storm arrived and the marsh filled again. The frogs returned, and the cattails looked less tired. Still, I kept thinking about the muddy ring. It was like a warning line, showing how quickly a place can change when weather and human decisions collide.

According to the passage, what caused the marsh to dry faster than it used to?