And she’d stayed with Skinner, doing what he said to get them food and keep things working up in his room. He’d send her down to the lower deck, where the junk-dealers spread their stuff. Send her down with anything: a wrench that said "BMW" on the side, a crumbling cardboard box of those flat black things that had played music once, a bag of plastic dinosaurs. She never figured any of it would be worth anything, but somehow it always was. The wrench bought a week’s food, and two of the round things brought even more. Skinner knew where old things came from, what they’d been for, and could guess when somebody’d want them. At first she was worried that she wouldn’t get enough for the things she sold, but he didn’t seem to care. If something didn’t sell, like the plastic dinosaurs, it just went back into stock, what he called the stuff ranged around the bases of the four walls.