CASSIE DRAGS her feet all the way out of the mall, and because she’s pissing me off, I’m not paying full attention. As we come around the corner of Shoppers Drug Mart, the four guys who are standing around the ATV turn their heads. Snyder McIsaac and three of his goons.

Where’s Docker when you need him?

Snyder lifts his shades, studies my face. Three or four more trips to McDonald’s and he’ll have a double chin. “Ain’t you the pretty sight,” he says. “Babysitting your little sister again? How cute is that.”

Cassie clutches my thigh. Snyder’s buddies loosely circle us. Repeat Appearance of Chinless MacAvoy. “We forgot something at Shoppers,” I mumble. “See ya.”

“Not so fast,” Snyder says. “You got money on you?”

The fifteen dollars for Cassie’s white teddy bear is in my wallet. I wasn’t in the mood for Zellers after the dojo, so I didn’t mention it to her. “Nah,” I say, “we left a package on the counter.”

Snyder signals. The three others elbow into me. Cassie starts to whimper. My sentiments exactly. One of them grabs for my wallet, knocking into Cassie, whose whimper turns into a howl. I stoop to pick her up, get kneed in the kidneys and grunt with pain. Too soon after the last beating, that’s all I can think as I hoist her in my arms and jam her face into my shirt.

Someone punches me from behind. Nearly rocks me off my feet.

So loud it makes me jump, a horn starts blaring the rhythm of “O Canada.” My head swings around.

Tully Langille, astride her bike, is squeezing the rubber bulb of the Klaxon on her handlebars: one note only, the sound somewhere between a snort and a fart. She switches to “Here Comes the Bride.”

Heads turn in the parking lot. An SUV stops, the driver peering at us.

Snyder says through gritted teeth, “See you later, MacAvoy,” then lumbers away, his three sidekicks trailing him like the tail of a comet.

As he passes Tully, he says, “Watch yourself, slut.”

Tully gives a rude toot on the horn. I pat Cassie on the back, my heart still racketing in my chest. “It’s okay, Cassie. They’ve gone.” Tears are swimming in her eyes, although she’s doing her best to blink them back. I don’t have a Kleenex.

Tully wheels over, pulls a tattered tissue from her pocket, and offers it. “So, Brick, how does it feel to have someone throwing rocks at you?”

“Gee,” I say, “a metaphor.”

Her eyes narrow, mean as Snyder’s. “Here’s a noun for you— empathy. Try it on for size.”

“That why you horned in on Snyder?” I don’t want to say, That why you came to my rescue? Too humiliating.