Emma slammed the door of her rental car, annoyed. Not one single Subway. Nor MacDonalds, nor anything British that could make her feel a little at home. Defeated, she had finally decided to draw the car into the parking lot of a small hotel after an hour of cruising aimlessly down foreign, wrong-sided roads - it was the first one she'd seen - which the sign declared as the 'Hawkeye Inn'. She had sat a moment in the driving seat, her head in her hands at the sheer vastness of this new country, before pulling herself together and forcing herself to crack open the door and scramble out. She caught sight of her reflection in the dusty windows of the rental as she did; her hair was a complete mess of dark tendrils, having only had the opportunity to drag a hairbrush through it in the airport toilets, in the early hours of morning. She cringed a little, but then, ignored it. It was currently the least of her worries.

She had so far gathered that she was in the state of Iowa. She had no idea of where she was going or, indeed, how she was getting there. She was hoping that this spontaneous road trip would reassure her enough to shake her OCD - show her that not planning everything to the last, minute detail wasn't necessary - but so far, it had only convinced her that she needed them more than ever. She had nearly missed her plane and then, had locked her keys in her flat. In the present, she could already feel hands itching for the hand sanitizer stowed away in her luggage.

She extracted the suitcase from the passenger seat of the car, and made her way up to the entrance. She figured she could check in now and then go hunt for some diner or something, to eat at. Her stomach rumbled in approval. 

She entered and sauntered up the reception desk, checking in and retrieving a key. She glanced past the lobby at a small eating place and she sighed in relief, dragging to and leaving her luggage next to one of the seats in the lobby (she was past caring whether anyone stole it) and walked over, determinedly. She crossed the threshold and the warm aroma of cooked breakfast hit her - delicious. 

She scanned the area. It was fairly quietly and only a couple of people were seated, grazing their way through their own breakfast. Perfect. She hated crowds. 

She grabbed a plate of her own and served herself breakfast, barely looking at the food she was placing on her plate - only ensuring that nothing touched and that she had everything in near equal amounts - before turning back to the tables, wondering where to sit. Most people (and by most, she meant three) had collected on a table in full view of the doorway and so, too wearied to think of a argument not to, went and sat a couple of chairs across from them. Usually, she was hyper aware of the fussy manner in which she ate and no longer liked to eat in company, but surely a few Americans that she was unlikely to see again would care.

She discrete wiped the handles of her knife and fork with one of the napkins, and cut her bacon into square, tentatively beginning to eat. The smell of coffee inviting her to grab a cup but she resisted. Coffee and her were never a good combination - as if she wasn't constantly on edge enough already. After the first mouth full, she had nearly moaned at how good the food was, filling her empty stomach and warming her up. 
And she hadn't even sighted Whisper - her 'stalker', the product of her damaged, over active imagination - for a good 12 hours now. 

Maybe things were looking up.

Maybe this trip was just what she need.