by Nic Fleming
Washington Post
With his jeans, white trainers and stripy top, Bob is every inch the well-dressed 6-year-old. He's standing in the middle of a hotel parking lot and, scarily, I'm driving straight at him. Instead of hitting the brakes, I put my foot down on the accelerator. With only about 10 yards to go, a row of red lights flashes across my windshield, and there's an urgent, high-pitched beeping sound. An instant later, I am jerked forward as the brakes slam on automatically and the car screeches to a halt just short of Bob's stomach.
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