Brooke here.
Brown and I were in Whole Foods, Destroyer of Budgets this weekend when we saw this:
Brown sat down with a pen and the back of a receipt and threw down some quick numbers.
BROWN: “Six inches of ivy at, hm, let’s round up to twelve to make the math easy… If our lot is almost two acres… Minus the area for the house, the driveway, the pool, and the lawn… Carry the four… Oh!”
ME: “Good news?”
BROWN: “Yes. Our property is worth eleventy billion dollars.”
Flying by night 
The managers give you a blank stare when you ask why they are selling the vile demon-weed, the all-devouring maw of foliage. They mumble something non-committal, uneasy in the face of your disdain.
It’s not their fault. Truly.
Every day, they must return home – to a home enshrouded by the Beast. Their loved ones are trapped within – sometimes kept aside for days on end, while the leaves rustle softly in an unseen breeze, uttering eldritch words no mammalian tongue can pronounce, planting seeds of despair.
They must spread the leafy tentacles of the Ur-vine. It will permit no refusal.