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You ever have one of those days where the city itself seems to be against you? That was my whole month. My name’s Danny, and I drive a taxi in London. Or, I did. The old black cab was more than a car; it was my dad’s before me, and it was my independence. But then “Bertie” started making a sound like a dying dinosaur. The mechanic, a guy I’ve known for years, just shook his head. “Transmission’s on borrowed time, Dan. A rebuild will cost you four grand, easy.” Four thousand pounds. It might as well have been four million. I had rent, bills, a kid who needed new school shoes. The savings I had were a joke. I started driving for a ride-share app in a little hatchback I rented, feeling like a traitor in my own city. It was grueling, and the money was barely keeping my head above water. The dream of fixing Bertie was fading fast. I felt like I was failing my dad’s memory, and my own future.

My mate Kev, another cabbie, saw I was in the gutter. One night, over a pint of warm disappointment in a quiet pub, he nudged me. “Look, it’s stupid, but when I’m stuck in traffic, I mess about on this game. vavada chicken road 2 casino, right? There’s this ridiculous chicken game. It passes the time. Makes you forget the clogged arteries of the North Circular for a bit.” He showed me his phone. It was called Chicken Road 2. It was even dafter than the first one, with chickens on skateboards and pizzas flying around. I snorted. “You’re having a laugh.” But he was serious. “Just for five minutes of not thinking, Dan. Set a tenner limit. Lose it, and you’ve paid for a distraction.”

That night, in the grim silence of my flat, the worry was a physical weight on my chest. I remembered the stupid chickens. I thought, what’s another tenner on top of a mountain of debt? I downloaded the app, went through the sign-up, and found Chicken Road 2. Kev was right. It was gloriously, terminally stupid. The music was a funky little bassline, the chickens had sunglasses, and the “cars” were things like runaway shopping trolleys and scooters. I put in my tenner, set the bet to the lowest setting, and just tapped. I wasn’t playing to win. I was playing to not think about transmission fluid and credit scores. For ten minutes, my brain was occupied by a cartoon chicken trying to cross a road to reach a giant taco. I lost the tenner in about seven minutes. And for those seven minutes, I didn’t feel the panic. It was a weird kind of value.

It became my terrible secret. After a brutal shift, dealing with drunk customers and satnav failures, I’d come home, make a rubbish cup of tea, and lose a tenner to the chickens. It was my decompression chamber. A valve to let the pressure out. I’d watch the silly animations, and the knots in my shoulders would loosen just a fraction.

Then, one Thursday, it happened. I’d had a particularly grim day. Rained on, stiffed on a fare, the hatchback got a flat. I was at my absolute lowest. I did my sad ritual. Logged in, tenner down, bet set. I tapped spin on Chicken Road 2. The reels—covered in tacos, hot sauces, and rad skater-chickens—spun. They stopped. Two golden egg symbols. Then a third. The screen changed. “EXTREME CROSSING MODE!” flashed up. It was a new bonus round Kev hadn’t even mentioned. The game shifted to a side-scroller. My chicken was now on a skateboard, and I had to swipe to jump over obstacles and collect coins. I was terrible at it. I lasted maybe six seconds before crashing into a pixelated traffic cone. I laughed a bitter laugh. Of course.

But then, the game did something odd. A second chicken, a little one, appeared on the screen holding a “2ND CHANCE” sign. It gave me another life. I swiped frantically, collected a few more coins, and then wiped out again. The game tallied the score. The number at the top of the screen, which had been £0.00, started to change. It multiplied my meager coin collection by a wild, escalating multiplier that seemed tied to how badly I’d crashed. It was like the game took pity on my failure. The numbers spun. Fifty pounds. A hundred. Five hundred. My mouth went dry. It kept climbing, that funky bassline still playing underneath. It slowed, hesitated, and landed on £3,400.

I dropped my phone. I actually dropped it. It clattered on the laminate floor. I picked it up slowly, expecting the screen to be cracked or the number to have vanished. It was still there. £3,400. I immediately initiated a withdrawal, my hands shaking so hard I used fingerprint ID. I didn’t sleep. I checked my bank app every hour.

Two days later, it was there. Real money. I didn’t scream. I called Kev. I just said, “The chickens came home to roost, mate.” He understood instantly. “No!”

I didn’t get the full transmission rebuild. But I got the crucial part fixed, the one that would get Bertie back on the road safely for another few years. The rest paid off a nasty bill and got my kid not just new school shoes, but a proper weekend out at the seaside. Hearing him laugh on that windy pier was better than any jackpot sound effect.

I still drive Bertie. And sometimes, when I’m stuck in traffic on the North Circular, I’ll open the app. I’ll tap spin on Chicken Road 2, with a one-pound bet. Not to win. But to remember. To remember the night a stupid, ridiculous game gave me a second chance, exactly when I needed it most. Now, every time I see a pigeon braving the traffic, I smile. We’re all just trying to cross the road, aren’t we? Sometimes, you need a skateboard.