He had sold equipment before.
This felt different.
A contract that size did not simply create revenue. It created obligations before payment.
Parts had to be bought.
Space had to exist.
Testing had to happen on schedule.
If one tractor was late, a farmer might wait.
If six were late, Cypress rearranged crews across counties.
“I need a week to price this right,” Isaiah said.
Patrice nodded.
“That is why I came here instead of asking for a yes on the phone.”
Leon walked around the shed.
“You cannot build eighteen here.”
“I know.”
“You got another location?”
“Not yet.”
“That should be in your pricing.”
“It will be.”
After they left, Isaiah stood in the shed looking at dimensions he had never needed to measure before.
Square footage.
Door width.
Electrical capacity.
Drainage.
Insurance.
Fire code.
The dream had stopped being mechanical and become operational.
He spent the next week with a calculator, a yellow legal pad, and more humility than excitement.
New parts inventory.
Warehouse rent.
Utilities.
Liability insurance.
A real testing station.
A lift or overhead chain system safer than the improvised setup behind the house.
A second mechanic.
He rejected his own first price because it assumed nothing would go wrong.
Otis had once told him, “Any estimate that needs perfect luck ain’t an estimate. It’s a prayer.”
Isaiah rebuilt the numbers with room for rework.
He quoted Cypress.
Patrice accepted subject to sample testing.
The next challenge was a shop.
A small warehouse one mile from the Callaway house had been empty since a cabinet company closed. The concrete floor was stained but flat. Two roll-up doors worked. Three-phase power remained from woodworking machinery. The landlord wanted a one-year lease and two months’ deposit.
Isaiah walked through it four times before signing anything.
On the fifth visit, he brought Denise.
She stood in the office, looked through the glass at the empty floor, and said, “This is either too much space or not enough.”
“Helpful.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”