Squeeze.
The antidote filled the man's nostril.
The purple faded. Then it came back. Kowalski's heart raced.
"We only gave him one, and he needs another!" she called to a security guard in McPherson Square Park, a tranquil patch of green in one of this city's roughest neighborhoods.
"He's dying," said a bystander, piling on as tension mounted around lunchtime one recent weekday.
"Where is the ambulance?" a woman begged.
Squeeze.
1 comment:
My mother had to call for one she found slumped over a computer unresponsive.
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