We’re heading southeast on Interstate 10, headed into Tucson, Arizona, when we pass the group of men in orange jumpsuits and hard hats working on the side of the highway. “Inmates Working,” the sign on the back of the truck parked on the shoulder says. It’s the sort of sight that can generate a swirl of curiosity, pity, and distaste in a person, but the robot doesn’t register anything about who these men are.
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