For two nights he couldn't sleep. He lay staring at the old paint on the ceiling that had faded since the last time he painted it, decades ago. But neither did that bother him, nor the naked bulb that caused a headache when it turned on, nor the crooked beam that swelled like a hump on the wall over time. He only wondered what would happen to the loaders. Maybe the scrap dealer's oxygen would break them into pieces or open them up to sell parts, like organ trafficking, or maybe they would sell them whole to some fools who wanted to make contractors with an old machine. How much would they give for it, I wonder; he rubbed his chin and thought about the amounts.