Through the Goose Gate

A bone-deep chill pierced the stiff, coarse hemp robe she wore like countless tiny needles, burrowing into her bones. She jerked her eyes open. What came into view was not the warm yellow glow of the counseling room, nor the half-dead pothos she had been trying to keep alive in the HR manager's office, but a drab canopy over a bed. It had been patched in several places with rough cloth and was coated with a thin layer of frost. The wind made it shiver and rustle, as if it might collapse at any moment.