As I hoped, while chasing fireflies like a little child, not sure which one to go after, I got closer to one. It was not a firefly at all, but a small window of light. The light from the warm home spilt out and I was drawn magically towards it. Inside was a grandma telling a story. I leaned closer, pressed my ear to the cold windowpane. It was a beautiful story. There were heroes and villains. There was plot and intrigue. There were wrong turns, treacherous paths and surprises that spring upon you. There were genes that saved and genes that killed. There were drugs that killed the genes that killed. Proofs and controls and alternative hypothesis intruded. But we emerged gasping, but with a beautifully crafted story. It was the sweat and blood of craftsmen and craftswomen who struggled, who lost hope, who lost interest, who nearly left and who wouldn’t leave. It was precious. It was our baby and we needed to bring it out into the world, quickly. I woke up next morning to swat the firefl...