Read this extract from a short story. Then answer the questions.

The letter had been sitting on the kitchen table for three days, and still Amara had not opened it. She knew what it was, of course. The thick cream envelope, the university crest printed in the corner – there was no mistaking it. Inside was the answer to a question that had kept her awake for weeks. And that was precisely why she could not bring herself to tear it open.

As long as the envelope remained sealed, both futures were still possible. She could still be the girl who had won a place at medical school, just as she could still be the girl who had failed. The moment she read the words inside, one of those futures would vanish forever. There was a strange comfort in not knowing, in keeping the door open a little longer.

Her mother had noticed, naturally. She had said nothing directly, but Amara had caught her glancing at the envelope each time she passed, her lips pressed into a thin line of barely controlled patience. That morning, she had placed a cup of tea beside it, as if to remind her daughter that it would not disappear on its own.

Finally, on the fourth day, Amara sat down at the table as the early light came through the window. Her hands were not quite steady. She told herself that whatever the letter said, she would be the same person afterwards as she was now – though she was not entirely sure she believed it. Taking a slow breath, she picked up the envelope, slid her finger under the flap, and began to tear.