**Someone Else’s Journey**
When the notification about a speeding fine flashed on his phone screen, Oliver didnt grasp what had happened at first. He sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the laminate surface. The flat was already dimming with twilight, and outside, the last of the snow melted away, leaving uneven wet patches on the pavement. Just another evening routinechecking messages, scrolling through the news feed. Then came the email from the car-sharing service. The subject line read: *Speeding Fine Penalty Issued*.
At first, Oliver assumed it was a mistake. Hed last used a rented car at the beginning of the montha quick trip to the supermarket on the outskirtsand had meticulously ended the session in the app. Since then, no drives, no plans to get behind the wheel: hed been working remotely for ages, and errands were done on foot or by bus. His coat hung by the door, damp from the drizzle earlier, but he hadnt so much as glanced at a car.
He opened the notification and read it three times. The fine was addressed to him, with a timestamp from the previous evening. The details listed a number plate and a stretch of road near the train stationa part of town Oliver hadnt visited in weeks.
Suspicion turned to irritation. He tapped open the car-sharing app. The screen flickered with the company logo, loading sluggishlyhis home Wi-Fi always lagged in the evenings. The trip history showed a rental the night before: started just past eight, ended forty minutes later on the other side of the city.
Oliver studied the details. The rental began right when hed been eating dinner in front of the telly, half-watching a report about a tech exhibition. He clicked *More Details*the route mapped over familiar streets, grey lines tracing roads he knew.
His mind raced. A system glitch? Or had someone hacked his account? But his password was strong, and his phone never left his side, charging by the bed at night.
The email included a standard appeals linksupport promised a response within two days if he could prove his innocence.
Fingers tense with frustration, he fired off a message in the apps chat:
*Evening. Received a speeding fine for rental # but didnt use the car yesterdaywas at home all evening. Please verify.*
An automated reply confirmed his complaint was logged.
He frowned. If no one fixed this, hed be stuck payingthe services terms pinned penalties to the account holder. He remembered that from last years policy update.
A floorboard creaked in the next room. The heating had been off for a weekwarmer days meant no radiators, but evenings still carried a chill. Oliver half-listened to the flats sounds: the fridge humming, distant voices in the stairwell.
Waiting gnawed at him. To distract himself, he scrolled back through the trip history and spotted another odditythe rental had ended without the usual interior photos. The app always required snapshots to document the cars condition.
Helplessness settled in. No human from support had repliedjust forms, chatbots, automated replies.
Oliver jotted details on a scrap of paper: the rentals start time matched the evening news; the pickup location was a shopping centre three stops from his flat.
He considered calling an old colleaguea solicitor whod once mentioned how hard it was to contest fines without concrete proof of fraud. But he wanted to gather facts first, to have a solid case before dealing with supportor, if needed, the police.
The next morning, Oliver woke early, restless from a night of poor sleep. No new emails, no updatesjust the same *Under Review* status.
To speed things up, he reopened the trip history, cross-referenced the rentals start time with his own movements: mobile banking showed a takeaway order around seven, then work messages between half-eight and nineexactly when the phantom drive had happened.
He screenshotted the route, timestamps, and banking activity, then resent them to support.
Waiting became easier, but now he felt like a suspect in his own investigationevery detail mattered.
Outside, dusk returned. Yellow streetlights reflected on wet tarmac; someone hurried past the building, breath misting in the cool air.
By eight, support replied: *Thank for your patience. For further action, we advise reporting this to your local police and forwarding us a copy of the report.*
More bureaucracy. Now hed have to prove his innocence to the authorities, too.
That evening, Oliver went to the station near his flat. The queue was short. The duty officer listened carefully, helping him file a report for unauthorised account use. He handed over copies of the trip history.
Back home, Oliver uploaded everythingsupport emails, the police report.
The final hurdle loomed: finding out whod used his account.
The next morning, car-sharings security team reached outthey had CCTV footage of the rentals start.
The clip loaded in the app. A medium-built figure approached the car near the shopping centre, unlocked it with a phone, slid inside. The face was turned away, but one thing was clearit wasnt Oliver.
Morning passed in weary anticipation. Condensation fogged the kitchen window; outside, tyres hissed through puddles. No new messages. He reread the threadthe footage and report had been sent. Security had promised a re-evaluation.
At noon, another email: *Your case is being processed. Await final decision by end of day.* The wording felt cold. He rewatched the clipthe strangers hooded figure, sharp movements.
Time dragged. He tried to work, but his mind kept circling back. The police report lay beside his keyboard, screenshots stacked nearby.
At two, a new notification: *After review, your fine has been cancelled due to confirmed unauthorised access. Thank you for your vigilance.* Attached was a security guide.
Oliver read it twice. Tension ebbed, slow like recovery. The app updated*Resolved.*
Almost immediately, support calledcalm, professional:
*Thanks again for flagging this. We recommend enabling two-factor authenticationinstructions to follow.*
Oliver thanked them. *Hope this doesnt happen again. Ill sort it today.*
After hanging up, he opened the apps security settings. Two-factor setup took minutesa new password, a quick SMS code. A confirmation popped up.
Relief mixed with lingering frustration. The issue was closed, 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 had to pay for someone elses joyride,* he explained. *Thank God for CCTV. Two-factor everything now.*
One frowned. *Didnt think that could happen. Better check my settings.*
A quiet unease hung over the table. No one took digital safety for granted anymore.
He walked home in drizzle, yellow streetlights pooling on wet pavement. The stairwell was quiet, cool. Inside, he checked his phone againno alerts.
Late that night, Oliver lingered by the kitchen window. His thoughts had shiftedless fear of glitches or malice, more wariness of his own complacency online.
The next day, he forwarded the security guide to a few contacts, adding: *Better safe than sorry.*
Two replied fastone asked about contesting fines, the other thanked him for the two-factor tip.
The week settled back into routine. No more alarming emails, no strange transactions. But every evening, Oliver checked his security settings automaticallya new habit, folded into the quiet rhythm of late autumn.
**Lesson learned:** Trust, but verify. And never assume the digital world plays fair.
