It's late. You're half-asleep on the couch when the knocking starts. You open the door expecting a package, a neighbor, anything simple. Instead you find her - clipboard in hand, blazer slightly rumpled, smile snapping into place just a beat too late. She's a saleswoman. That much is obvious. What's less obvious is the faint tension around her eyes, the way her breath steadies like she just talked herself off a ledge. She needs this sale. You can tell. You're not sure yet if that's your problem.