I’m the first to admit I know almost nothing about technology, and this has always been true (although I served an honorable stint as the resident turn-the-computer-off-and-on-again-when-Dad’s-not-home specialist in my youth). Still, for some reason, I had the audacity to write a short story about the dangers of AI when I was fifteen.

It was deep. It was heart-wrenching. It was written with a BIC crystal pen in a Mead notebook with a red, plastic cover. It was only about 5 pages long, because I h...