When I was a young boy, my grandmother sat me on her knee and breathed words to me that I have always carried with me. I remember it distinctly: geckos crawled on the screens of her porch between the 2x4s stained to look like red cedar. The shuffleboard court just beyond shimmered through the balmy air, illuminated blindingly by the white sunlight that shone down on her little patch of Fort Myers.
Carried on fumes of gin and the jangly rattle of her thick bracelets, she said to me, "Josh, it will always be a bad idea to clone the Neanderthals. I know you don't know what those are right now, but you will someday. And I want you to remember; no matter how they want to bring them back, it's a bad idea. The Neanderthals died off for a reason."