As it turned out, Ben never needed to go over the higher pass at all. After three days of travel he stopped at a convenience store for gas and an actual toilet (you see, he hadn't thought he could afford hotels; he'd been camping by the highway every night), and overheard some people talking as he stood behind the snack isle.
A middle aged woman was leaning on the counter. '...needs it, doesn't he? No point in being dictator unless you make money.'
'I suppose,' the cashier conceded. 'Still,' she went on, rubbing at her nose ring in what looked like a habitual manner, 'Too much upheaval scares away investors, and there has been a lot of it recently, so I hardly think there're going to be many coming through.'
'Oh don't say unlucky things,' the older woman chuckled, 'You need the customers!'
At that point they both seemed to notice Benjamin watching them; the tattooed cashier hurriedly straightened up and removed her hand from her face, and the woman gathered her purchases and left with a little wave. Ben was about to ask for a pack of cigarettes, but thought better of the impulse: age mattered in this country, and he didn't have ID. 'Could you tell me the road to Tarik?' he asked instead, doing his best to mimic the accent of this country.
'Sure thing,' said the young woman, 'Just keep going on highway 55, it'll take you all the way there.'
'Right.' Benjamin paid for the gasoline and left, nearly smiling. If he could get through security, he wouldn't have to sleep outside; there were always abandoned houses after a takeover.
Later, Ben would never understand quite how he did manage to get across that boarder.
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