It’s 8 p.m. July 11, 2033. Hot and getting hotter. There’s a high of 117 outside McCarran International Airport, and you’re fighting the odd desire to crack an egg over the asphalt, Tweetagram it. You can see the Strip through the glass window at arrivals. It looks roughly the same as you remember—the iconic shapes of the Luxor, Paris and Wynn still cutting through the sky—but you’ve heard a lot has changed since your last visit. “You want in?” your girlfriend asks, sitting in a semicircle of friends. She’s put together a Texas hold ’em table on her tablet, connected ...
