**The Wrong Route**
When the fine notification flashed on his phone screen, Edward didnt grasp the issue at first. He sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the laminate surface. Dusk settled over the flat, and outside, the last of the snow melted into uneven wet patches on the pavement. Just another eveningchecking messages, scrolling through the news. Then came the email from the car-sharing service. The subject line read: *”Speeding Fine.”*
At first, he assumed it was a mistake. The last time hed rented a car was earlier in the montha quick trip to the supermarket on the outskirts. Hed closed the session properly in the app. Since then, no rentals, no plans to drive: work had been remote for ages, and errands were done on foot or by bus. His coat, damp from the drizzle, hung by the door. He hadnt even gone near a car.
He opened the email and read it three times. The fine was addressed to him, with yesterdays date and time. The license plate and location were listeda stretch near the train station, a place he hadnt visited in weeks.
Suspicion turned to irritation. He opened the car-sharing app. The logo blinked, loading slower than usualhis Wi-Fi was patchy in the evenings. The trip history showed a rental the night before: started just past eight, ended forty minutes later across town.
Edward studied the details. The start time matched when hed been eating dinner in front of the telly, watching coverage of a tech exhibition. He tapped *”Details”*the route mapped over familiar streets, grey lines tracking a path he hadnt taken.
His mind jumped between explanations: a glitch? A hacked account? But his password was strong, and his phone was always with him or charging by the bed.
The email included a standard appeals linksupport promised a response within two days if he could prove his innocence.
Fingers trembling slightly, he typed a message in the apps chat:
*”Evening. Received a speeding fine for rental #, but I didnt use the car yesterdaywas home all night. Please verify.”*
The auto-reply was boilerplate: *”Request received. Await review.”*
If this wasnt resolved, hed be stuck payingthe terms pinned liability to the account holder. He remembered that from last years update.
A floorboard creaked in the next room. The heating had been off for a week, and the flat still held a chill. He listened absently: the fridge hummed, voices murmured faintly from the stairwell.
The wait dragged. To distract himself, he scrolled through the trip history againanother oddity. The rental had ended without the usual interior photos. The app always required them for condition reports.
Helplessness gnawed at him. No direct contact with support, just forms and bots.
He jotted the rental details on a notepad: start time matched the news bulletin; the pickup spot was a shopping centre three stops from home.
A thought flickeredcall his old colleague, the one whod mentioned how hard it was to contest fines without proof of fraud or system errors. But he wanted to gather every detail first, to have a solid case before dealing with supportor, if needed, the police.
The next morning, he woke early, restless. No new emails, no updatesjust the same *”Under Review”* status.
He reopened the app, cross-referencing the rental time with his own records: mobile banking showed a takeaway payment around seven, work messages between half-eight and nineexactly when the phantom trip had happened.
Screenshots followedthe route, the rental log, his transactions. He resent them to support.
Waiting became easier, but now he felt like a detective building a case against himself.
Dusk returned. Outside, yellow streetlights smeared reflections on wet tarmac. Someone hurried past the building, breath visible in the evening chill.
By eight, support replied: *”Thank you for your submission. For further action, we advise reporting to local police and forwarding a copy of the report to expedite the fines cancellation.”*
More bureaucracy. Now he had to prove his innocence to the authorities.
That evening, he visited the police station near home. The queue was short. The duty officer listened, helped file a report for unauthorised account use. He handed over a copy with the screenshots.
Back home late, Edward uploaded everythingsupport correspondence, the police report.
The final hurdle: uncovering whod used his account.
The next morning, car-sharing security reached out. Theyd pulled CCTV from the shopping centre.
The clip loaded in the app. A middle-height figure approached the car, unlocked it with a phone, slid into the drivers seathood up, face turned away. Definitely not Edward.
Morning brought weary patience. Condensation fogged the kitchen window. He wiped it, listening to the muted city soundstyres cutting through puddles. No new alerts.
By noon, another email: *”Materials received. Expect a final decision by end of day.”* Each phrase felt impersonal. The hooded figure lingered in his mind.
Time crawled. He tried to workemails, reportsbut his thoughts circled back. The police copy sat by his keyboard, screenshots stacked beside his phone.
At two, the notification came: *”Good afternoon. After review, the fine has been cancelled due to confirmed unauthorised access. Thank you for your vigilance.”* Attached was a security guide.
He read it twice. Tension ebbed like post-illness relief. The app showed the rental gone, the case closed.
Support called moments latercalm, professional:
*”We appreciate your prompt action. Enable two-factor authentication for your account; well send instructions.”*
*”Hope this doesnt happen again,”* Edward said. *”Ill sort it today.”*
After hanging up, he navigated to the apps security settings. Two-factor setup took minutesa longer password, a quick SMS code. The confirmation notification popped up.
Relief mixed with residual annoyance. Solved, yes, but any slip could leave him vulnerable again.
That evening, he met colleagues at a café near the officea rare in-person catch-up.
*”Nearly paid a fine for someone elses joyride,”* he summarised. *”Thank God for CCTV. Two-factor everything now.”*
One frowned. *”Didnt think that could happen. Better check my own settings.”*
A quiet unease threaded the conversation. Digital habits werent harmless defaults anymore.
He walked home in drizzling rain. Streetlights bled gold onto wet pavements. The stairwell was cool and quiet. Inside, he checked his phone againno new alerts.
Later, by the kitchen window, his thoughts shiftedless fear of glitches or malice, more wariness of his own carelessness online.
The next day, he forwarded the security guide to a few contacts with a note:
*”Stuff happensbetter safe than sorry.”*
Two replied fast: one asked about contesting fines, the other thanked him for the two-factor tip.
The week ended quietly. Work resumed, the app stayed silent. But every evening, he checked his security settings out of habitanother routine in the rhythm of late autumn.
**Lesson learned:** Trust, but verify. The digital worlds convenience cuts both ways.
