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By the close of trading, the stock had enjoyed a modest uplift of over 4%. A result, one suspects, less indicative of profound economic optimism than a temporary reprieve from the prevailing gloom.

They say two hundred and seventy-seven obesity drug candidates languish in development as of mid-2025. A graveyard of good intentions, most destined to join the silent majority of failed pharmaceuticals. A grim statistic, is it not? Yet, within this chaos, a pattern emerges. The closer a compound draws to approval, the greater its chance of survival. Viking Therapeutics’ VK2735, a GLP-1 medicine, is already navigating the treacherous waters of phase 3 trials. This does not guarantee success, no. But it shifts the odds, ever so slightly, away from oblivion. To believe in a miracle, one must first acknowledge the overwhelming probability of failure.

The stock, frankly, has been a bit of a downer. Five years of annual losses averaging 10%. It’s the kind of performance that makes you wonder if they’re still telegraphing messages, just not very good ones. But, and this is where it gets interesting, there’s a dividend. A hefty one. Which, in the current climate, feels a bit like finding a twenty in an old coat pocket.

It began, as these things often do, with a reduction. Hal Goetsch, a man whose prophecies were rarely heeded until long after the event, lowered his price target for the company, a gesture as subtle as a moth’s wing brushing against a stained-glass window. From seventy-two to sixty-nine dollars per share – a sum that felt less like a valuation and more like a lament. He maintained his neutral stance, a position as safe and ultimately meaningless as a priest’s blessing in a cholera epidemic. The analysts, those meticulous cartographers of the future, predicted a period of decline, a few lean quarters where earnings would shrink like a forgotten mango left too long in the sun. Yet, they also spoke of a recovery, a faint glimmer on the horizon, a compound annual growth rate of just under five percent between 2023 and 2027 – a promise as fragile as a hummingbird’s egg.

Three companies warrant consideration, not because they are guaranteed successes – such a thing does not exist – but because they appear, at this juncture, to be positioned for growth. These are Nebius Group, Nvidia, and Palantir Technologies. Each operates in a different sphere of this burgeoning technology, and each carries its own particular risks, which a sensible investor will acknowledge.

Texas Pacific, a company that essentially rents out bits of Texas to chaps who dig for the black stuff, is now valued at a rather robust $639 per share, according to the estimable Tim Rezvan at KeyBanc. Quite a jump from the previous valuation of $350, wouldn’t you agree? Mr. Rezvan, a fellow of sound judgment, continues to recommend a “buy” – or, as the moderns put it, “overweight” – position in the company’s equity. One suspects a good deal of optimism is at play.

The promise, you see, is that these agents – these tireless workers – will need to pay their way. Transaction fees, a share of the harvest, if you will. They’ll need to fuel their operations with Ethereum, boosting demand, lifting the price. It’s a simple story, easily told, and easily believed, especially when hope is a scarce commodity. But the land doesn’t give up its bounty without a fight.

The trouble, you see, started with a fellow named Curtis Nagle at Bank of America Securities. A rather large, important man, no doubt, with a nose for trouble and a habit of wielding financial forecasts like a rusty cleaver. He decided, quite decisively, that Alight wasn’t worth nearly as much as he previously thought. He lopped a whopping $0.90 off his ‘fair value’ assessment – down to a measly 50 cents a share. A price that wouldn’t even buy you a decent lollipop these days. And he firmly, rather sternly, told everyone to ‘underperform’ it – which is a polite way of saying ‘sell, sell, SELL!’

They’ve reported 14 crashes involving their robotaxi fleet in Austin, Texas, since last June. Now, 14 doesn’t sound like a lot, does it? It’s roughly the number of times I’ve mislaid my keys this month. But consider this: that works out to about one crash every 57,000 miles. For context, and this is where it gets interesting, human drivers, according to Tesla’s own data, manage a collision roughly every 229,000 miles. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration puts it even higher, at 500,000 miles. So, Tesla’s robotaxis are crashing, shall we say, with a frequency that’s… notable. Four to eight times more often than us fallible humans. And, crucially, all these incidents have involved a human “safety monitor” in the driver’s seat. Which rather begs the question, doesn’t it?