The Story of Process and How it Works

Marcus pulled into the quiet Deltona neighborhood just after nine, the sun already warming the pavement and casting long shadows from the palms lining the street. The Martins’ home stood modest and well-kept, a single-story ranch with a wraparound porch and a mailbox that leaned slightly to the left. It was the kind of house that had seen years of life—birthdays, late-night talks, maybe a few arguments—but now it was preparing for a new chapter.

Sarah greeted him at the door, her smile polite but tired. She was dressed in jeans and a soft gray tee, her hair pulled back in a loose bun. Inside, the house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old wood. Tom’s voice echoed from the kitchen speaker—he was calling in from his office across town.

“We’re relocating,” Sarah said, gesturing toward the living room. “Tom’s job is taking us to North Carolina. We’re planning to rent this place out, but it needs… well, everything.”

Marcus nodded, already scanning the space. The great room opened wide, with vaulted ceilings and a wall of windows that spilled light across the hardwood floors. Off to the left was the dining room, compact but elegant, and beyond that, a small office with built-in shelves and a view of the backyard.

He moved methodically, measuring each room with practiced steps. Three bedrooms, each about 120 square feet. Two full bathrooms and a half bath tucked near the laundry. The office was cozy, maybe 100 square feet. The great room stretched nearly 400, and the dining room added another 150. Every space had its own quirks—nail holes, scuffed baseboards, a few water stains near the ceiling vents.

Marcus jotted notes as he walked, counting doors—three exterior, six in the bedrooms, three for the bathrooms, and two hall closets. Fourteen in total. He measured trim, estimated surface area, and mentally calculated the gallons of paint needed to cover walls, ceilings, and every inch of glossy trim.

Back at the kitchen island, he laid out the quote.

“For labor,” he began, “we’d be looking at twenty-two credits. That covers everything—walls, ceilings, trim, patching, prep, and two coats throughout. That comes to twenty-five hundred flat.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows. “Just for labor?”

Marcus nodded. “It’s our prepaid credit model. It’s designed to simplify quoting and reduce upfront cost. If we priced this out using our standard hourly rate—$150 an hour—you’d be closer to twenty-eight hundred in labor alone. And that’s before materials.”

Tom’s voice crackled through the speaker. “So the credit system saves us money?”

“Exactly,” Marcus said. “And with the credit model, you don’t pay for materials until the job starts.”

Sarah leaned in. “How much are we talking for paint?”

Marcus flipped to the next page. “You’re looking at about forty-nine gallons total. That includes flat paint for the walls, ceiling paint, gloss for the trim and doors, and primer. If you supply it, retail cost is around seventeen-fifty. If we supply it, we add a fifteen percent sourcing fee, which brings it to just over two thousand.”

Sarah exhaled slowly. “So all in, we’re looking at…”

“About forty-five hundred if you go with the credit model and we supply the paint,” Marcus said. “If you prefer the standard rate, it’s closer to forty-eight hundred—and we’d split that fifty-fifty. So you’d pay twenty-four hundred up front.”

Tom was quiet for a moment. “That’s a lot.”

Marcus nodded. “It is. But if that’s too much to take on now, we can rework the payment structure. With our lowest entry plan, we break the total into four milestones—thirty percent at booking, thirty when the tech arrives, thirty when the tech wraps up, and the final ten at inspection. That brings your upfront to just under fifteen hundred.”

Sarah looked at the quote again, then at the speaker. “Tom?”

“Let’s go with the credit model,” he said. “It’s cleaner. We’ll handle the paint ourselves.”

Marcus smiled. “Perfect. I’ll lock in the Lite, Mid, and Pro packs, and we’ll get your home renter-ready.”

As he packed up his clipboard, Sarah walked him to the door. The house behind her was still the same—sunlight on the floors, quiet in the corners—but now it felt like it was waiting. Not for a new coat of paint, but for the next story to begin.