Hi, I'm with the Rescue Squad, can you tell me what happened?

I'm developing my own patterns of communication now that I actually do most of the talking to patients. That's a pretty standard opener for an injured person; it gets modified slightly for the sick patient. The response gives me a number of crucial pieces of information, most notably whether the patient is breathing, conscious, alert, and oriented to what's going on around him or her. If they can't tell me clearly why someone in a uniform and latex gloves is kneeling in front of them and taking their pulse, then my concerns ratchet up a notch.

On the weekend we were bizzy, run after run after run. Every time we got back to the squad, the other ambulance had been dispatched and we were up for the next call. I began to accumulate a stack of unfinished patient reports, pink and white and yellow sheets with torn blue carbons hanging out like sick tongues. I was planning to leave the squad at midnight and head back into DC to pick up Susan from the train station, and I began to wonder if I was going to get stuck on a call and strand her in Union Station just past the witching hour. But the more calls we got, the calmer I became. These are among the first calls in which I am provisionally in charge of patient care. To be sure, there's another person there with full credentials to offer guidance and a firm hand if I ever seemed about to do something dumb. Nonetheless, it is considered my responsibility to guide the crew in taking care of patients, as provisional as my powers may be. It is a feeling that is not easily comparable to other elements of earthly life. On Friday, I began to feel the first signs that a rhythm was coming together for me.

I took advantage of a slow spell to scribble through my reports. These, like my performance on the call, is assessed in a "pre-aid" report completed by the more experienced member of the crew. I must have 15 pre-aid reports before I can schedule my aidman test. Thus far I have largely managed to avoid embarrassing myself on a call, but each one has shown me things I could work on. I have to tell my ego to take a walk when I review each call with the aidperson on the crew. Despite my previous experiences as an EMT, I find that everything changes when I'm calling the shots. It's much more terrifying, for starters, but by the time I escaped out the back door I was on an adrenaline surge and felt marvelous.

I made it back into the District in what I had thought was impossibly good time. Union Station was in late-night mode -- shops shuttered behind iron gates, marginal characters slumped in the seats around the platform gates. I felt ridiculously conspicuous in my uniform, but no one seemed to pay it any mind. People at the train station in the early morning have their own agenda; they can't be bothered with the details of others' existences.

Susan was one of the first people off the train. She was exhausted, while I was feeling vividly alive and hyperkinetic. I believe I am meant for this. That's not a bad feeling at all.