Focus. Usually he would use meditation in a moment like this, draw his cards and use them and the energy around him to drag himself back together. Except for all he knows those jerks will come back and being caught unaware like that would be the worst.

So instead he focuses on his breathing, on the air that holds a slick wetness, and on the soft touch against his hand.

"Hey there. I guess I owe you one," he says, running his fingers over damp fur and then wincing, realizing he's not entirely protected where is and his clothes are developing holes.

"Are you kidding me," he mutters, carefully opening the umbrella to not spook the dog, moving it to shelter them both as he pets him more, his breathing evening out as he does.

"I don't... I'm not good about fighting back." And panics when he has to, memories being a horrible thing. "Thank you."