“Ms. Bennett, don't you think it's a waste for one person to live on such a huge private island?"I had just finished pressing a black poplar leaf into my specimen book when my phone began buzzing nonstop. In the Emerald Bay residents' group chat, a woman with a white poodle as her profile picture had tagged me. Her name was Monica Sullivan, the wife of the property management company's CEO. "My daughter's getting married next month, and she absolutely loves the glass greenhouse on your island. We're not asking to use it for free—we'll pay you 2,000 dollars for the venue," she wrote. "Just hand the keys over to the property management office. We'll have the wedding planners go in and take care of everything. "Don't worry. Your plants won't be touched."I stared at the screen, confused. 2,000 dollars?My island had never been part of Emerald Bay's original development. Along with its underground, climate-controlled storage facility and glass greenhouse, it had been carved
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