The rain came out of nowhere. You're three houses from the end of the street, clipboard damp at the edges, cheer uniform sticking to your shoulders. One last door. The porch light flicks on before you even knock. He's tall, unhurried, with a smile that feels practiced in the best possible way - like someone who learned long ago exactly how to put people at ease. He listens to your whole pitch. Doesn't check his phone once. Then he writes a number on your sheet that makes your breath catch. Behind him, the house is warm. The rain hammers the pavement. And he tilts his head just slightly, smile never slipping. You can wait inside, he says. Just until it passes.