Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
Charity Case By JIM HARMON Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Certainly I see things that aren't there and don't say what my voice says—but how can I prove that I don't have my health? When he began his talk with "You got your health, don't you?" it touched those spots inside me. That was when I did it. Why couldn't what he said have been "The best things in life are free, buddy" or "Every dog has his day, fellow" or "If at first you don't succeed, man"? No, he had to use that one line. You wouldn't blame me. Not if you believe me. and I was left there in the dark. Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it He looked the way I did in the mirror. They did unpleasant things to him. Because they were real, I talked about them as if they were real, and I almost earned a bunk in the home for retarded children until I got smart enough to keep the beasts to myself. others got money from home to buy the things they needed—razor blades, candy, sticks of tea. I got a letter from Mom or Dad every now and then before they were killed, saying they had sent money or that it was people were always watching every move I made. He braced his red-furred hands on the sides of his auctioneer's stand and leaned his splotched eagle beak toward us. "Brothers, this being Thanksgiving, I pray the good Lord that we all are truly thankful for all that we have received. Amen." Some skin-and-bones character I didn't know struggled out of his seat, amening. I could see he had a lot to be thankful for—somewhere he had received a fix. scampering after water soup and stale bread. As soon as I got cleaned up, I was going to have dinner in a good restaurant, and I was going to order such expensive food and leave such a large tip for the waiter and send one to the chef that they were going to think I was rich, and some executive with some brokerage firm would see me and say to himself, "Hmm, executive material. Just the type we need. I beg your pardon, every move, but a man's luck has to change sometime, doesn't it? couldn't. It had to be a one. Who drops anything but a one into a Skid leave a fifty or even a hundred. A hundred! couldn't lose that money, especially that century bill. Calm, I ordered myself. Calm. My hand still wasn't free and I hadn't budged the box. "This," Brother Partridge said, "is one of the most profound experiences of my life." "Cold turkey," he corrected. "Are you scoffing at a miracle?" even when they aren't around. I should have known it would come to that." wasn't dumb enough to murder. Somebody, somewhere, would be a witness to it. I had never got away with anything in my life. I was too smart to even try anything but the little things. "I may be able to help you," Brother Partridge said, "if you have faith and a conscience." "I've got something better than a conscience," I told him. Brother Partridge regarded me solemnly. "There must be something special about you, for your apprehension to come through miraculous intervention. But I can't imagine what." "I always get apprehended somehow, Brother," I said. "I'm pretty special." "Your name?" "William Hagle." No sense lying. I had been booked and printed before. substantial. "Come. Let's sit down, if you can remove your fist from the money box." happened to me when I thought back over my life. The same thing. call the cops. "Remarkable," Partridge finally said when I got so hoarse I had to take a break. "One is almost— almost —reminded of Job. William, you are being punished for some great sin. Of that, I'm sure." "William, all I can tell you is that time means nothing in Heaven. Do "Of course you have, William! Say you don't remember. Say you don't want to remember. But don't say you have no personal experience!" He looked at me in disbelief. "What else could it be?" "I don't know," I confessed. "I certainly haven't done anything that bad in this life." "William, if you atone for this sin, perhaps the horde of locusts will lift from you." It wasn't much of a chance, but I was unused to having any at all. I shook off the dizziness of it. "By the Lord Harry, Brother, I'm going to give it a try!" I cried. "I believe you," Partridge said, surprised at himself. reached in, fished out the bill and presented it to me. "Perhaps this will help in your atonement," he said. I crumpled it into my pocket fast. Not meaning to sound ungrateful, I'm It was all an accident, but killing somebody is reason enough to get for November. "What do you do, Jack?" the fatter one asked. make an example of him and do something permanent and I a damp centerfold from the . There was a pick-up slip from the warehouse under the fingers of one hand, and somebody had beaten his brains out. I suppose I was to blame anyway. If I hadn't been alive, if I hadn't looking at it like that. But there was nothing to be said for telling Brother Partridge about the accident, or murder, or whatever had happened that day. to eat since the day before, it enervated me. The downstairs washroom was where I went first. There was nobody there but an old guy talking urgently to a kid with thick glasses, matches dropping down on the floor next to his tennis shoes, and even a from spilling more from the spoon. non-objectionable bum. The librarian at the main desk looked sympathetically hostile, or hostilely sympathetic. "I didn't want to see the with education who makes the money. I had been reading the Funk &amp Energy, Boron, Brussels, Catapults, Demons, and Divans. News and left me alone with books on or not, so I took the volume for last year and laid it on the floor. That was the cleanest floor I ever saw. It didn't take me long to find the story. The victim was a big man, because the story was on the second page of the Nov. 4 edition. wouldn't be safe with the change from a twenty in that neighborhood. it mended. Funny thing about a suit—it's almost never completely shot unless you just have it ripped off you or burned up. It wasn't while Walter Pidgeon and the rest wore Ivy Leagues. Maybe I would look like an eccentric executive. into the wastebasket. It felt like another, but I checked myself. I needed a clear head. I thought about going back to the hotel for some sleep I still had I ran. Harold R. Thompkins, 49, vice-president of Baysinger's, was found dead behind the store last night. His skull had been crushed by a vicious beating with a heavy implement, Coroner McClain announced in preliminary verdict. Tompkins, who resided at 1467 Claremont, Edgeway, had been active in seeking labor-management peace in the recent ugly, worried, tired, stupid look and he wore a shiny suit with a piece of a welcome mat or something for a necktie. Yeah, it was me. I really knew it all the time. eyebrow. They couldn't do anything worse to the small man than they had done to the young boy. It was sort of nostalgic watching them, but same kill over and over. Like watching the Saturday night string of They say it's a bad sign when you start hearing voices. I nearly panicked, but I held myself in the seat and forced myself to be rational about it. My own voice was always saying things be the only But a new thought suddenly impressed itself on me.

<question>:
What should probably happen to William?

<options>:
A he should find out who killed the man
B he should find a job with the labor union
C he should try to reconnect with his parents
D he should seek professional help

<answer>:

D