William Fitzgerald is hunched resentfully over the wheel of his car, tailing a client, when the Wheels pass through the city. He feels them coming before he sees them, feels them in the stillness that settles over the city and fans his skin like the gentle wings of a hornet. His client pulls over and William Fitzgerald waits a few cars back, smokes a cigarette and watches the sky slowly change.
The Wheels are huge, three, four stories tall, yellowed with age, mellow and lustrous like soft amber. They are full of eyes, great gentle bovine eyes, and they watch William Fitzgerald as he watches them. They move through the city without turning, move in all directions without turning, and the eyes watch William Fitzgerald as he watches them. When they start to slip into the forest of downtown, he shifts his car into gear and follows them. His client when he passes her is slumped forward against the dashboard, a thin ribbon of blood running down her neck from her ear. William Fitzgerald follows the Wheels, their placid eyes watching him watching them. When they have covered the whole city, passed down every street and up every alley they rise without turning and are gone into the sky. William Fitzgerald leans forward to watch them go.
When they are gone he looks down and sees his client. As she pulls out into traffic he moves to follow her. Her hand rises to brush at her neck.