I’d be lying if I said I understand everything Michael Levin believes. But I’m also not alone; sometimes his own colleagues can’t even follow his arguments. Elizabeth Weil’s profile of the renegade (and genius) biologist bridges that gap, sketching out Levin’s research and claims in a way that’s just grokkable enough to blow your mind. I mean this as a true compliment: When’s the last time we had a genuine mad scientist on our hands?

Critics accuse Levin of all kinds of teleological crimes — making unfalsifiable claims, using words in ways that render those words meaningless. Levin is unfazed. In his talks, he tries to disarm his detractors by preempting the accusation that he’s nuts: “I have some unusual things to say and then I have some crazy things to say”; “So this is a kind of crazy claim I’m making.” His true retort is his wet lab. There, at the bench, he’s working to prove his metaphysics by running old-school (in a way) biological experiments. He studies flatworms with two heads. Frogs with eyes on their stomachs. Little round creatures called xenobots, synthesized from frog skin cells. They swim like tiny Pac-Men. They do not exist in nature.

“The only thing that ever settles arguments is technology,” Levin tells me, a line he borrowed from biophysicist Chris Fields. “People have been saying for thousands of years what they think” about minds, consciousness, souls, energy fields. “What I can contribute is ways to test some of those things.”

First off: This isn’t a Rick Moranis profile. I know you want it to be—we all want it to be—but it’s not. Maybe one day we’ll get the deep, rich look at a man who’s beloved by millions of comedy fans but who also stepped out of the public eye more than 30 years ago. Until then, there’s the fact that Moranis will be part of next year’s Spaceballs sequel, and as such was game enough to show up at San Diego Comic-Con over the weekend (where, predictably, Hall H chaos ensued). Anthony Breznican was there, shadowing the proceedings. Read it at ludicrous speed, obviously.

Even in this holding area, Moranis is already getting a sense of the excitement building around him. Among the first people to have their socks knocked off is Clerks and Mallrats filmmaker Kevin Smith, the moderator of the presentation and a Comic-Con stalwart for decades. “I came for the panel because of Rick Moranis,” he tells me, invoking the name of the actor’s beer-swilling duo with Dave Thomas from their SCTV days. “Jay and Silent Bob doesn’t exist without Bob and Doug McKenzie. Having him at Comic-Con is like having geek royalty here. You’re talking about a dude who, for most of us, was there as we grew up. He was part of the fabric of the culture since we were kids.”

When Steven Judy was executed for rape and murder in 1981, he was little more to the public than a monster. To Traci and Randy Carr, he was something else: a hero and a protector. After all, he was their foster brother. For The Guardian, Masha Hamilton—who covered the Judy trial as a young reporter more than 45 years ago—returns to Indiana to meet the Carrs, and to take the measure of the hole rent in their lives by Judy’s actions and disappearance.

Her mother has begun appearing again in her sleep: Mary holding her, comforting. Almost as if speaking aloud what had been buried for decades had called her mother back.

“Everyone hated Steve, and we were told we should too,” Traci says. “For a long time, I thought we did something wrong, and I was ashamed. People treated us like we had raised a murderer. It’s still how people remember us. I don’t think Mom ever got to grieve properly. I don’t think any of us did.”

I have a vague eighth-grade memory of trying to run 400 meters in under a minute. The operative word here, of course, is “trying.” But what eluded me then is nothing for the middle- and high-school kids of today, who are shattering track records on a weekly basis. Some of that is sneaker technology, some of it is training, some of it seems to be an intense competitive drive fueled by social media. Whatever it is, Brendan I. Koerner has seen it in his own kids—and now he throws himself into the world of scholastic speedsters for his latest Wired feature.

The results make track old-timers shake their heads with wonder. In April, for example, an eighth-grade boy shattered the national middle-school record for the mile (he ran it sub-4:18). Just two weeks later, an eighth-grade girl ran the 400 meters faster than any US high schooler had at that point in the year (she clocked 51.58).

It’s not just the superstars who are getting faster. The runners in the pack behind them are picking up the pace, too, and they’re transforming what’s considered a decent time. “I think I have 10 middle-school girls who run between a 4:56 and a 5:16 mile,” says Peterson. “Ten years ago, you’d be like, ‘That’s insane.’ Now it’s nothing.” When these kids head to high school, they have the strength and experience to flourish right away. But given the sky-high expectations they face, the intensity can come at a cost.