The Wrong Ride
When the notification flashed on his phone screen, James didnt grasp it at first. He sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the laminate surface. The flat was dimming into evening, the last of the snow outside melting into uneven wet patches on the pavement. Routine stuffchecking messages, scrolling through news. Then the car-sharing services email arrived. The subject line read: *Speeding Fine Issued.*
At first, James thought it was a mistake. Hed last used a rented car weeks agoa quick trip to the out-of-town supermarket, closing the session properly in the app. Since then, hed barely left the houseremote work kept him indoors, errands handled on foot or by bus. His coat hung damp by the door from the evening drizzle, but he hadnt even glanced at a car.
He opened the email, reading it three times. The fine was addressed to him, timestamped the previous evening. Listed were the cars registration and the locationa stretch of road near the train station, a part of town he hadnt visited in weeks.
Suspicion turned to irritation. He opened the car-sharing app. The screen flickered with the logo, loading sluggishlyhis Wi-Fi always stuttered in the evenings. The trip history showed a rental the night before: started just past eight, ended forty minutes later across the city.
James scanned the details. The rental had begun while he was eating dinner in front of the telly, half-watching a report on a tech expo. He tapped *View Route*the map unfolded, grey streets tracing beneath the highlighted path.
His mind raced. A glitch? A hacked account? But his password was strong, his phone always within reach or charging by his bed.
The email included a link to dispute the finesupport promised a response within two days if he could prove innocence.
Fingers trembling faintly with frustration, he typed a message into the apps chat:
*»Evening. Received a speeding fine for rental #, but I didnt take a car last nightwas at home all evening. Please verify this charge.»*
The auto-reply came instantly*case logged, awaiting review.*
He exhaled sharply. If the mistake stuck, hed be the one payingthe terms pinned liability to the account holder. He remembered that from last years app update.
A floorboard creaked in the next room. The heating had been off for daysspring days warmed, but evenings still held a chill. He listened absently: the fridge humming, muffled voices drifting through the thin front door.
The wait gnawed at him. To distract himself, he revisited the rental history. Another odditythe session had ended without the usual photos of the cars interior. The app always demanded snapshots for condition reports.
Helplessness settled in. No direct contact with supportjust forms, auto-replies.
He jotted details on a scrap of paper: rental timestamp matching the news broadcast, pickup location at a retail park three stops from his flat.
A thought flickeredcall that solicitor mate from his old job, the one whod grumbled about contesting fines without hard proof of fraud or tech errors. But instinct said to gather every detail firstbuild a solid case for support, maybe even the police.
The next morning, he woke earlyunease had clawed at his sleep. No new emails, no updatesjust the same *under review* status.
He dug deeper, cross-referencing the rental time with his own movements: mobile banking showed a takeaway payment around seven, work messages exchanged between half-eight and nineexactly when the phantom ride happened.
Screenshots followedthe route, rental activation, bank recordssent again through the apps upload form.
Waiting felt easier now, but James had become an investigator in his own defenceevery step a piece of evidence proving he wasnt the one behind the wheel.
Outside, dusk thickened. Yellow streetlights smeared across wet tarmac; someone hurried past the front steps, breath fogging the damp air.
By eight, support replieda scripted note: *»Thank you for your patience For further resolution, we advise reporting to your local police and forwarding a copy of the report to expedite the fines cancellation.»*
More red tape. Now hed have to prove his innocence to the law, too.
That evening, James visited the station near his flat. The queue was short; the duty officer listened carefully, helping draft a statement about unauthorised account use. Copies were takenhis screenshots, the report.
Home late, he fired up his laptop, uploading the support thread and police paperwork.
One question lingeredwhod used his account?
The next morning, car-sharings security team reached outa manager offered footage of the rentals start.
The video loaded in the app. CCTV near the retail park caught a medium-built figure striding to the car, unlocking it with a phone, sliding into the drivers seathood up, face turned away. One thing was clear: it wasnt James.
Morning brought exhaustion, not panic. Condensation blurred the kitchen window; outside, tyres hissed through puddles. No new alerts. He checked againnothing from the police, nothing from support.
At noon, a brief email: *»Materials received. Final decision by end of business day.»* Every word felt impersonal. He rewatched the footagethat quick, hooded figure burned into memory.
Time crawled. He tried workinganswering emails, reviewing reportsbut his mind circled back. The police copy lay by his keyboard, printouts of the route and transactions stacked beside his phone.
Two PManother notification: *»After review, your fine is voided due to confirmed unauthorised access. We appreciate your vigilance.»* Attached was a security guide.
James read it twice; tension ebbed like a fading fever. The app updatedthe rental vanished from his record, case marked *resolved.*
A call camea composed support agent:
*»Thanks again for flagging this We strongly recommend enabling two-factor authentication. Instructions will follow.»*
James thanked them. *»Hopefully no repeats. Ill sort it today.»*
First, he dove into the apps settingsaccount security. Two-factor setup took minutes: a longer password, a swift SMS code. A confirmation pinged.
Relief mingled with residual annoyanceofficially resolved, but any slip could leave him vulnerable again.
That evening, he met colleagues at a café near the officerare face-to-face chatter over pints.
*»Nearly paid a fine for some strangers joyride,»* he summarised. *»Thank God for CCTV. Passwords and verification every time now.»*
One frowned. *»Didnt think that could happen. Better check my settings.»*
A ripple of uneaseno one took digital safety for granted anymore.
He walked home in drizzle, yellow streetlights swimming on wet pavement. The stairwell was quiet, chilly. Inside, he checked his phone once moreno new alerts.
Later, by the kitchen window, his thoughts shiftedless fear of glitches or malice, more wariness of his own complacency online.
The next day, he forwarded the security guide to contacts, adding:
*»Worth a lookbetter safe than sorry.»*
Two replied fastone asking about fine disputes, the other thanking him for the two-factor tip.
The week settled back into rhythmno more alarming app notifications. But every evening, James checked his security settings out of habit, folding it into the mundane rituals of early spring.
