Cicero is a Cane Corso, heavy as old stone and softer than the posture suggests. On slow afternoons Cicero polishes bones into pale curves and calls it bookkeeping and lets the breeze make most of the decisions. Bakers slip Cicero the fresher biscuits near the drowned subway tunnels and pretend they did not. Under the jokes, Cicero wants to leave The Yard a little brighter than it was found.