Three questions get bundled into one and they come apart cleanly: what you think is actually there, whether you do anything about it alone or with other people, and where you think the answer comes from. Somebody can hold that the world is only the physical one and still want a room full of people marking a day; somebody can believe in far more than that and want nobody else involved.

Thirty-six statements, about six minutes, and a point inside a cube. This asks how you relate to these questions, not whether you have the right answer to them — and it counts what you do about them even when what you do is nothing much.

Three separate decisions get made every time somebody deals with their own health, and people who agree about one of them often disagree about the other two: how early you want a thing looked at, whose judgment you want it looked at by, and whether the goal is to be free of problems or to be better than that.

Thirty-six statements, about six minutes, and a point inside a cube. Answer for what you would choose, not for what has already been decided for you — and note that none of this is medical advice or a judgment about how anyone handles any of it.

Two questions sit underneath most moral arguments, and mixing them up is why those arguments go nowhere. One is what makes an act right — the kind of thing it is, or the way it turns out. The other is who counts, and how much: everybody equally, or the people you are actually tied to.

Twenty-four statements, about four minutes, and a point on a map. There is no scored answer here and no corner the quiz is steering you toward.