YOU SAID:

A crowd hovered over the man lying on the grass as his skin turned purple. Chera Kowalski crouched next to his limp body, a small syringe in her gloved hand. 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. Kowalski dropped the second syringe and put her palm on the man's sternum. Knead. Knead. Knead. Nothing. She switched to knuckles. Knead. Knead. Knead. Then a sound, like a breath. The heroin and methamphetamine overdose that had gripped the man's body started to succumb to Kowalski's double hit of Narcan. With help, the man, named Jay, sat up. Paramedics arrived with oxygen and more meds. Death, held at bay, again. Kowalski headed back across the park, toward the century-old, cream-colored building where she works. "She's not a paramedic," the guard, Sterling Davis, said later. "She's just a teen-adult librarian -- and saved six people since April. That's a lot for a librarian."

INTO JAPANESE

男上群衆の中に置いた彼の皮膚と草の上に横になっている紫になっています。Chera コワルスキーは、彼のぐったり体、彼女の手袋をはめた手で小さな注射器の横にうずくまって。 絞る。 解毒剤は、人間の鼻孔を満ちています。 紫色が消えていった。その後、それは戻ってきた。コワルスキーの心臓が暴れていた。 「我々 だけを与えた、と彼は別の必要がある!」彼女が Mc で警備すると呼ばれる