This week I was attaching my kids’ bikes to the rack that hangs precariously from our minivan’s posterior, contemplating our summer vacation plans, and it suddenly hit me: This will be the year we have to put a cargo carrier on the roof.
With that thought, scenes from long ago came back to me: a groaning carrier tied down like a dead stag atop our aged Volvo station wagon, the back end of which would be stuffed with bags and bedding arranged to permit the now-illegal stowage of me or my sister, propped up with some thick fantasy novel for company, …
This article appears as “Robot Apocalypse” in the June 1, 2021, print edition of National Review.
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