**The Wrong Ride**
When the speeding fine notification popped up on his phone, Edward nearly choked on his tea. He was slumped at the kitchen table, elbows propped on the laminate surface. The flat was dimming into evening, the last of the daylight clinging stubbornly to the damp pavement outside. Just another mundane routinechecking emails, doomscrollinguntil the car-sharing app decided to drop this bombshell. The subject line read: *»Speeding fine incurred during your rental.»*
His first thought? *Glitch.* The last time hed hired a car was weeks agoa quick trip to the Tesco Extra on the outskirts. Hed even triple-checked the app to close the session properly. Since then, hed been firmly in work-from-home mode, only venturing out on foot or by bus. His coat, still damp from the drizzle earlier, hung by the door. He hadnt so much as glanced at a car.
Edward opened the notification and read it three times. The fine was addressed to *him*, timestamped yesterday evening. The listed location was a stretch of road near the train stationsomewhere he hadnt been in *weeks*.
Annoyance flared. He jabbed open the car-sharing app. The logo spun lazilybloody Wi-Fi always chose evenings to act up. The trip history showed a rental the previous night: an eight PM start, forty minutes of joyriding across town.
Edward stared at the details. The rental began right when hed been eating shepherds pie in front of *Gardeners World*. He tapped *»View Route»*the map unfurled, grey streets scrolling under the jagged red line of the mystery drive.
His mind raced: system error? Hacked account? But his password was a fortress, and his phone never left his pocket.
The apps help section offered a dispute linksupport promised a two-day review if he could prove his innocence. His fingers hovered over the chat.
*»Evening. Received a speeding fine for rental #, except I was home all night. Please investigate.»*
The auto-reply was impressively robotic: *»Weve logged your query. Please wait while we review.»*
Edward exhaled. If this wasnt resolved, *hed* be stuck payingaccount liability, buried in the terms hed skimmed last year.
A floorboard creaked in the hall. The heating had been off for dayssprings fake warmth tricked the system, leaving evenings stubbornly chilly. The fridge hummed, voices muffled through the front door.
No reply yet. He scrolled back through the rental details. Another oddity: the session had ended without the usual interior photosstandard protocol to document the cars condition.
Frustration simmered. He scribbled notes: *8:03 PM startcoincided with BBC News. Pick-up location: Westfield Shopping Centre, three stops away.*
A lawyer mate from his old job had once ranted about fighting these fineshow proof of fraud or glitches was borderline *Herculean*. But Edward wanted his own evidence first, bulletproof for both the apps support and, if needed, the police.
Next morning, he woke earlysleep had been patchy. No updates from support. Status still: *»Under review.»*
Time to escalate. He cross-referenced the rentals start time with his own digital breadcrumbs: a Deliveroo receipt at seven, Slack messages between half-eight and nine*exactly* when the phantom drive happened.
Screenshots captured, he resent everything to support.
Waiting became a bizarre self-investigationevery detail a potential alibi.
By eight that evening, support finally replied: *»Thanks for your patience! We recommend filing a police report to expedite the fines cancellation.»*
Brilliant. Now he had to *prove* his innocence to the authorities.
The local stations queue was mercifully short. The desk sergeant listened, nodding, and helped draft a statement about the unauthorised account use. Copies were stamped, evidence handed over.
Back home, Edward uploaded the police report to the app. One final hurdle: *who* had used his account?
The next morning, car-sharing security finally called. *»Weve pulled CCTV from the rentals start point.»*
The footage loaded in the app. A figure in a hoodie darted to the car, unlocked it via phone, and sped offjerky movements, face obscured. Definitely *not* Edward.
He exhaled. At least now, it wasnt his word against an algorithm.
By afternoon, another email: *»Fine revoked. Unauthorised access confirmed.»* Attached was a *»Stay Secure Online»* guide.
The relief was palpable. The apps trip history now showed *»Resolved.»*
Support rang againpolite, rehearsed: *»We strongly advise enabling two-factor authentication.»*
*»Already done,»* Edward said. New password, SMS codesthe works.
Annoyance lingered, though. The fix was simple, but the vulnerability had been *his* oversight.
That evening, he met colleagues at a pub near the office.
*»Nearly had to pay some berks speeding ticket,»* he admitted over a pint.
*»Blimey,»* one said. *»Guess I should check my settings too.»*
A shared quiet realisation: digital trust wasnt automatic anymore.
Walking home, rain misted the pavement, streetlights smudging gold on wet tarmac. The flat was quiet. No new alerts.
By the kitchen window, Edward lingered. The whole mess had shifted somethingless fear of faceless systems, more wariness of his own complacency.
The next day, he forwarded the security guide to a few mates. Two replied instantly: one asking how hed fought the fine, the other thanking him for the two-factor nudge.
The week settled. No more phantom rentals, no alarming emails. But every login, he now checked his security settingsjust part of the routine, like brushing teeth or locking the front door.
