
A food truck blasts down the highway when a front wheel suddenly pops off and rockets ahead into traffic.

The wheel had no intention of stopping. It had knocked over a speed camera, outpaced three squad cars, and was now — impossibly — signaling. Right blinker. Two miles to Exit 12: Tire Depot. The food truck driver, Renaldo, had been chasing it for eleven minutes with a spatula and increasingly poor judgment. The police dispatcher's voice crackled: 'Sir, is the wheel... indicating a lane change?' Renaldo gripped the wheel — the one still attached — and said nothing. He had a terrible feeling the tire knew exactly where it was going.

Exit 12 deposited Renaldo onto a two-lane road he had never seen on any map. Pete's Tire Depot sat at the end of it — dark, shuttered, the sign sun-bleached to near illegibility, closed since 1994 according to the padlock rust. Or so it appeared. Because as the wheel rolled up the cracked asphalt approach, the fluorescent lights inside began flickering on, one by one, buzzing like something waking from a very long sleep. The garage door groaned upward. And in the gap of yellow light that spilled out, Renaldo could see them: dozens of tires. All sizes. All perfectly still. All waiting. Above the door, a hand-painted sign read: WELCOME BACK. Renaldo stopped the truck. He turned to the three squad cars that had pulled up beside him. Nobody said anything for a long moment. Then the police dispatcher crackled: 'Sir... has this happened before?'
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