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The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
The Cough
The infection, if that was what it was, was viral, so antibiotics had no effect. There was no treatment beyond the cold medication, syrups, and lozenges that anybody could get over the counter. He wanted to make a joke about altitude sickness or shirpers or something, yaks, but it was no good. It always irritated him when people said they didn't go to hospitals because you went because your choices had been reduced to zero. At some point there'd been an hour at least in which Carolyn coughed as the doors drew back on Gurney's emergency room. She took two bites, maybe three. But he wasn't really paying attention because
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