America woke up to learn leucovorin, a legitimate drug with specific jobs, has been reassigned to cure autism because a microphone got lonely. Science, which prefers resumes, asked where the reference checks went and whether the miracle comes with a warranty longer than a campaign chant.

Leucovorin is folinic acid, the suit-and-tie cousin of folic acid, normally deployed to rescue healthy cells from chemotherapy’s bad mood. For autism, the data is early, limited, and arguing with itself like a family group chat at Thanksgiving. Yet somehow it’s on stage now, waving from a teleprompter like a pageant contestant named Clinical Maybe.

At the announcement, researchers clutched mugs like rosaries while a spokesperson promised the cure was both imminent and retroactive, much like tax cuts for unicorn ranchers. The podium bragged about “tremendous results,” a phrase that historically precedes either an audit or a fire sale.

I followed the incentives to their ledgers, where hope is priceless but the merch is not. Miracles, it turns out, post fantastic quarters until reality files an antitrust suit against the narrative.

Traders briefly sent anything with a vowel in its ticker to the moon, convinced folinic acid now reverses neurodevelopment like a time machine fueled by vibes. A biotech CEO announced he was “cautiously ecstatic,” which on Wall Street means someone just ordered a yacht with two y’s.

Online, wellness entrepreneurs began pre-selling the inevitable without waiting for the inevitable to RSVP. Their storefronts offered a “scientifically inspired” miracle supplement starter pack, which is a sentence that does cardio to avoid saying ingredients.

Doctors, who prefer randomization to rumor, suggested that small studies with mixed results do not equal a cure, a revolution, or even a decent pamphlet. Meanwhile, the national supply of eye-rolls hit a five-year high, prompting the Fed to consider rate hikes on nonsense.

Parents, who navigate more complexity before breakfast than Congress does in a fiscal year, deserve clarity, not carnival barkers. The only thing we’re certain about: autism isn’t a campaign prop, and data doesn’t stand up straighter because a crowd is chanting at it.

Influencers demo’d dosage charts like they were unveiling a new phone, except this model ships without instructions, testing, or the concept of shame. One proudly held a color-coded child-safe pill organizer, as if ergonomics could bully evidence into existence.

A brief history of miracle cures: snake oil, radium water, powdered moonlight, and that week everyone thought kale could file their taxes. Spoiler: none scaled beyond the first press release with adjectives wearing party hats.

If leucovorin is useful for a subset, great—prove it loud enough that statistics blush. That means large trials, peer review, pre-registered outcomes, and fewer exclamation points than a trampoline park for commas.

Until then, the campaign promises a cure next Tuesday, pending a recount by reality. I’ll believe the miracle when it hits GAAP, not just guidance—and when the footnotes stop winking like they’re running for office.