I FIRST PERFORMED CPR on a mild November night. At 16 there were other things I could've done on a Saturday night, but the immediacy of emergency medicine is an addiction.

Our crew consisted of: Kelly, my mentor, a paramedic; Chris, our driver, a sardonic college student; Amanda, a bubbly high school senior; and me.

We received the call after midnight. Chris draped his stethoscope over his neck, scanning the "rip-and-run" sheet--a fax from the dispatch center. The report contained no foreshadowing; a man had fallen from bed and required assistance.

Our patient's anxious daughter met us at the door. I peered around; George's adult children hadn't neglected him. There were vacuum lines on the carpet and current family photos. Someone cared.

Eyes glazed, he lay crumpled on the floor. Kelly and Chris hoisted him into bed; Amanda yawned.

With startling clarity I can recall Chris's words to our patient, George: "Sir, we're going to take your vitals, and then we'll leave so you can get some sleep."

Kelly and Chris collaborated outside George's room, their conversation hushed and rapid-fire: tachycardia, oxygen saturation, pupil reactivity. He had had a stroke.

Twenty minutes were spent bargaining with George. He was weak, but adamantly opposed to going to the hospital. Kelly compromised reluctantly: George would call 9-1-1 again if he wasn't feeling significantly better soon.

George died mid-sentence.

What followed was a whirlwind of shouted orders, clothes-ripping and fever.

Amanda and I sprinted to get the stretcher, stumbling on leaves that shimmied in the ambulance's flashing lights.

George was supine on the floor. "Somebody get in here and do compressions!" Kelly barked. I dropped to my knees.

The ambulance ride was chaotic, crammed with people and tense conversation made over a shell of a man. I remember only the rhythm of repeatedly thrusting my weight into George's chest.

After, we sat. I rode an adrenaline high. My muscles were taut; I shook uncontrollably, but I felt powerful. Conversely, Kelly dove into paperwork while Chris rested his head, spent.

Later Kelly said to me, "Tonight George chose not to sleep beside his wife. He slept in the guest room, like he didn't want her to wake up beside his body. I have to wonder. "

On Sunday I could hardly move. I called Kelly. "My arms, my back, my butt, my thighs!" I moaned, and she laughed. "You have CPR body, young one. Welcome to the club."

EMS is a subculture with a language blended of coded numbers, medical jargon and legalese. The people are truly incomparable; the real world experiences are candid--sometimes hilarious, and sometimes painful.

A man died. He was too far gone when we reached him; this time we made no difference. However, EMS can and does save lives.

Ambree Papa is a junior at Stafford High School.