Gold From Black Ink| Sandy Hiss The book's spine is crooked and brittle. Crack of bone permeates the pages. I cannot wait on pity. With every pause, I collect your words. Store them in my piggybank for safekeeping. I have at least $500, not counting the copper glare of orphaned pennies. They beg to be spent; I can only hide my candy wrappers and pretend not to hear. There is fortune to be had, so I will read all night, extracting gold from black ink.