Even with the new purple streaks in her long dark hair, she felt a bit ordinary.

She’d flown to California three days ago to begin a cross-country journey she’d been planning for seven years. Originally she’d intended to take the trip right after graduating from art school. But then her father was diagnosed with cancer and she’d stayed home to care for him. Now, with the money from his life insurance policy, she could follow her dream.

A tall man wearing only body paint and a boa constrictor passed Miranda and wagged both his snakes at her. She shrieked with laughter. Three trumpeters with gold lamé g-strings strolled by. A masked man in a jester suit abandoned the parade and approached Miranda. Throwing his arms around her as if they were long-lost friends, he hissed in her ear, “Don’t scream.” Something hard jabbed into her ribs.

Before Miranda had time to react, the man hustled her through the crowd. “Do you have a car?” he asked and poked her in the ribs again. This time she saw the gun.

She nodded.

“Take me to it. And no funny stuff.”

Fear and anger surged in her stomach as the reality of her situation sank in.

Struggling to keep her emotions from clouding her thinking, Miranda tried to recall what one was supposed to do in a case like this. She couldn’t run—the streets were jammed with people—and if she yelled, this crowd would probably mistake her plight for some kinky foreplay ritual. If they could even hear her over the hullabaloo. She reached for her cell phone, but the man noticed and snatched her purse away. In San Francisco, a man carrying a purse didn’t even attract a glance.

When they came to the spot where Miranda had parked her rented Kia, she considered kicking the car hard to set off the alarm. But nobody paid attention to car alarms anyway, and she didn’t want to provoke the man in the jester suit while his gun barrel was nuzzling her bra.