Your whole existence is tied to emergency services. You do it for a living, and you do it as a volunteer. You've seen more and experienced more than most could imagine, but they don't have to imagine such things because of people like you. You notice the weather outside is not good, and you briefly worry about not being available for business calls today.

No, today, you will learn more about yourself than you ever could have imagined. This day will not be like all the others. This day will grab your heart.

You begin to hear familiar voices on the radio. They let you know you are needed. They also tell you to be careful getting there for you're of no use if you put yourself in a ditch. As you drive and listen, you hear inner voices telling you that, even though you've seen it all, today will be different.

You arrive at what looks like a war zone. Your fellow angels of mercy are busy doing what they can to save people's lives. It's what you all do —every day of your lives —even though you rarely hear the words "thank you."

You know that you need to go right to ground zero —the small space between the two trailers where a Lumina and Tahoe have been crushed and their occupants lie pinned in desperate need of you —a place from which most sane humans would recoil. You've been trained thoroughly to concentrate on the task at hand. You know you have to bring a certain coldness to such a scene as your soul cannot withstand constant emotional thrashing.

As you trudge toward whatever awaits you, you vaguely notice the smells of diesel fuel, gasoline, antifreeze and fear. Yes, you can smell fear; you can smell death, but you are trained to ignore it. You are trained, above all, to serve the needs of others.

Yes, you've seen mangled metal wrapped around human beings before, but are you ever fully ready for what you see? You look at the crushed Lumina and Tahoe, which have slid under a truck trailer that does not touch the ground. You remember that you are the only one that will look out for your safety, but there will be seconds today when you forget.

Relief surges through you as you see that those already on the scene of such a delicate extrication of human beings are well-trained and capable. You know that they, too, know what it is like to wade into that crushed metal where humans and metal merge; it's like sitting in the middle of a crushed soda can while you're trying to figure how to get yourself and others out with any further hurt to anyone. You know what you're doing; that's reassuring. You see that those working on the Lumina are making the only kind of progress possible in these situations —slow but steady. It has to be that way if it's going to work.

You crawl under the truck teetering on top of the Tahoe, wondering if any voices will answer when you speak. Crouched low, you can't see anything through the mangled metal save the top of a woman's head, but four voices talk back when you speak. The clearest voice is a female's; you assure her that you're going to do all you can to get the quartet out.

You look at your partners. You know Roger. You've never met the flight nurse from the helicopter, but a quick conversation tells you he knows enough to be trusted. Working in these conditions, you have to trust your partners. Your life is in their hands and theirs in yours.

You want to jump right in there, but that would be crazy. There's still not enough room to work, not enough to do what you know how to do, so you wait patiently and are amazed by the skills of those who prepare the scene for you.

You keep talking to the woman. There are still two other male voices. The third is heard no more. She tells you that her husband has fallen silent, but not before telling her of his love for her. Again, you realize this one is different, but you chase that fleeting thought away and grab lifesaving tools at the same moment you encounter death once more.

You know you have to develop a rapport with those trapped inside, se they can help with their own extrication. It's extremely important that you pay close attention to the emotional status of those pinned inside that mangled metal. You tell them this will take some time, but you and your partners will get them out of there. You wonder if you could be so calm were it you crammed into that fetal position, wondering if you would live or die.

You use the air hammer and other tools to cut through the wreckage inch by inch, all the while telling them what you're doing and asking for their feedback. You tell them when the noise of the tool is corning. You tell them you're getting closer. She's trapped in the right passenger seat. Inch by bloody inch, you cut and peel back the angry metal. Finally, you can see her and she can see you.

She talks to you as if she's known you forever. She tells you that, after the initial impact, they had had a few seconds to feel fortunate before tons of runaway metal slammed into the rear end of the vehicle, leaving all inside depending on you. Yes, that's a lot to think about; you don't want to think about it, but, remember, today feels different.

Finally after more than two hours of intense concentration and effort, the roof above her is peeled back, and, as you've done so many times before, you lift her, and slide her laterally onto a backboard. She wants you to stay with her; she wants you to come with her to the hospital; she's been trapped for six hours. She grabs your hand tighter than it's ever been squeezed. You hear her voice her thanks, but you don't have time for that, do you? You look at her and tell her that you promise you will not leave that spot until you get her husband and friends out of there. You suspect her husband has died, but those are words you are not to say. That's for others —doctors and policemen; yes, it is their misfortune to carry bad news.

You have to get back to what you do best. The tools begin to make their noise, but your mind can't shake thoughts of her and what she faces.

You continue to chip, cut and coax metal. The other voices become louder and clearer. You know you're getting closer to the other rear seat passenger. You continue to cut away seat backs ... floorboards ... the roof. Twenty minutes after she's left the scene, you get him out. He, too, has been in that unyielding fetal position for hours. You get him ready to be transported. After he leaves, you attack the front seat passenger area. you cut roof, hood ... anything it takes to extract this living, breathing human being.

Minutes later, he's pulled free. He needs more help than the other two, so you get him ready for transport as quickly as you can. you return to the vehicle. You don't have to move much to confirm her husband is dead. After nearly five hours of pulling and banging on what was once a Tahoe, you turn to walk away, telling your exhausted partners you've had enough for one day.

But you haven't. You know you need to go see her. you stop and ask yourself why this situation has been the one that finally grabbed you deep in your gut. You decide that why doesn't matter; you have to go see how she's doing. You arrive at the hospital. They show you to her room. You're covered with grease, grime and the accumulated effort of the day, and like a little boy, you introduce yourself. That's not necessary; she knows exactly who you are and what you promised her.

She says "He's gone, isn't he?" Your head drops as you feel hot blood rush through your neck to your face. You remind yourself it is not your role to answer such queries. That's never been a problem before, and you've stared at death thousands of times. So you avoid her gaze; you tell her that you had promised you wouldn't quit until he was out. And you didn't. No, you didn't. You glance up; she stares a hole into your soul. "He's dead, isn't he" she asks.

You think quickly of all the years you've done this work. You think of all the pain you've seen and the tragedy you've experienced. You remember it's not your job to answer such questions. You've never wondered why before, but the thought sweeps through you now. You've never done it before, and you pray you'll never do it again, but you've connected with this person, this petite woman you pulled from mangled metal. You know there will be people angry with what you're about to do, but you hope they will understand that, yes, today is different.

You look her in the eye and nod.