Michelle Williams is studying to be an EMT, working for the Red Cross, serving at Union Square Cafe, and forging her career as an actor.

Today was a beautiful day in New York. I spent the morning tooling around in the Red Cross van, waving to cops and firemen and enjoying the gorgeous, almost-warm air. Even better, it was a slow day, and a slow day means fewer fires, and fewer fires mean fewer unhappy people. This isn't surprising for a warm day—the number of fires is directly related to the weather. When it is cold, people use more space heaters (dangerous) and candles (soooo dangerous) and even ovens (couldn't be more dangerous) to heat their homes.

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Today I went to a dwelling that was actually an "exposure"—not the place where the fire started, but a structure affected due to its proximity. Much of the damage in a fire is not caused by flames but by firemen. This was particularly true today—although the home had minimal smoke damage from the fire next door, the flames had not greatly damaged the structure. But there was no furniture and, well, no floor. The firemen had ripped the flooring from above and below to stop the possible spread of flames and to prevent more damage. You could look straight down from the hallway, which was intact, and see the layout of the basement. The owner of the house was understandably upset. Here's the thing, though: Firemen put out fires. They know exactly what they are doing. They know where flame lurks, where it spreads, and how swiftly it will eat everything in sight. So, yes, holes are punched in seemingly random places, and furniture is thrown about, but the fire is put out before it spreads any further. I have to explain that to a lot of people.

My very first fire, on my first training day with the Red Cross, was a blaze that destroyed most of a four-unit apartment building. I was with my co-worker in the apartment where the fire began and we were completing a damage assessment. I walked into what had been the kitchen, and I was overwhelmed. I couldn't tell which charred lump was the sink, or the microwave, or the dishwasher. The far wall of the kitchen had a window looking over the alley, but there no longer was a window, or a wall—just a gaping hole leading out into the freezing night air. I was training my flashlight around the room when I spotted an odd shape on the floor. I bent down, smelled it, and realized what it was: a turkey, still in plastic mesh wrapping, cooked through. Next to it was a void where the refrigerator should have been. We found the fridge later. Somehow it had been dragged across the kitchen to that far wall and tossed out into the alley below. I do not question the need to toss the fridge. I just wonder how the turkey got out first, and how it was the only recognizable item in the whole room.

Tonight, my Red Cross shift was supposed to end at 5, but as usual, I was sprinting to my 6 p.m. EMT class with minutes to spare. For the first time in over a week, we had a lecture rather than a practical. It's difficult to get back into that mode, but our instructor is informed and entertaining, so usually I enjoy these classes. Tonight was an exception. The lecture topic: cardiovascular and respiratory emergencies. Now don't get me wrong—this is important stuff, and our instructor was peppy and interesting, as usual. We are finally starting to piece together the bits of information that have been thrown at us since Day 1. I learned weeks ago that a myocardial infarction was a heart attack, but now I'm learning what causes it and how to treat it. This is the meat of the course.

But. It was a four-hour lecture, the kind that reminds us that this course used to be at least several months longer. Our instructor delivered an avalanche of information, at a brisk pace, much of it in medical terms that we hadn't yet heard and couldn't quite spell, let alone understand. During the fourth hour I turned and surveyed the class and saw 40 pairs of glassy eyes, 40 hands numb from writing, and the occasional look of despair. However, tonight was yet another challenge, and many of us set up study groups as we waited for the subway. I've got a hot date Saturday night with my textbook and some almond-sunset tea. And I know that our instructor will not leave us in the dark—he will simply demand that we work our way toward our personal best. Come May, the students who pass the course will be the ones he would let work on his own children. I'm determined to be one of them.

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