For part of the eight-week FDNY EMS Academy, EMTs are required to do a ride-along with a regular EMS unit. I get assigned to one of the busiest units in Brooklyn. I’m paired with an EMT named Bronson, who has 30 years of experience under his belt. He’s gentle, with kind manners and a big white walrus mustache. His nickname is Captain Kangaroo.

By afternoon, he’s decided I’m a white cloud. Ever since I came on, we’ve had no real calls. Black clouds attract emergencies. White clouds repel them.

Finally, the call comes in for an abused child. We fly lights and sirens to a rowhouse in Canarsie and are met outside by a Caribbean woman who tells us she suspects that the father of her 5-year-old daughter, Alexis, has exposed himself to Alexis and touched her inappropriately. She wants to file an order of protection against him and wants Alexis checked out at a hospital for evidence.

The mother is strikingly calm, despite how she is probably feeling, and one look at Alexis tells me she’s raised her daughter well. Alexis is bright-eyed and inquisitive, and questions us the moment we enter the parlor, pointing to the things hanging off our duty belts. An array of brightly colored plastic barrettes decorates her cornrows like landed butterflies. “What’re these for?” she says, pulling my shears. “Those are for cutting people’s clothes off when they’re really sick.” She mulls this over, then asks, for a 5-year-old, the inevitable next question. “Why?” “Why what?” I say. “Why do you need to cut their clothes off?” “So that I can see what’s wrong with them.” “Can’t you just ask them?” “Not always,” I say. “Not if they’re too sick to speak.” She mulls this over. “Why?” “Why are they too sick to speak?” She’s starting to do that smart kid-thing, cornering me. But I have to watch myself. I can’t tell her about unconscious trauma patients or cardiac arrests. “Well…” I say, “have you ever had the flu?” She nods. “Last year I had a flu-with-a-temperature and had to miss a whole week of school.” Excellent. “Remember how awful you felt? Well, sometimes it even gets worse than that.” She thinks, then wrinkles her brow. “But why would you have to cut the clothes off someone with the flu?” Cornered. Blast it. I change the subject. “I’m going to take your blood pressure,” I say. I need a set of vitals for our paperwork, so I wrap the cuff around her skinny arm. “I’m going to listen to the sound the blood makes inside your veins.” I pump up the cuff and listen. Alexis is fascinated, and takes over my stethoscope for the rest of our time together. She listens to my heart (“Keep still,” she orders), Bronson’s heart (“He’s Captain Kangaroo,” I tell her), her mother’s heart, and Officer Pitt’s heart when she arrives, though it’s a little difficult through her bulletproof vest. Officer Pitt is a petite woman with an elaborate braided hairdo and an impressive duty belt. Alexis points to her handcuffs. “What do you do with those?” Officer Pitt is as impressed by Alexis as I am. “I use them to lock up bad people.” Alexis taps the handle of her Glock 9mm. “And what’s this for?” Officer Pitt thinks it over carefully. “To make the bad people listen to me when I tell them to stop.” Alexis accepts this and points to the mace. “And what’s this?” Bronson speaks up. “That’s her hairspray. To keep her hairdo nice.” I try to stifle a laugh as Alexis circles Officer Pitt’s duty belt, going over her ammunition clips, portable radio, and log book before coming back around to the handcuffs. “Are you going to lock me up?” Alexis asks. Officer Pitt shakes her head. “I don’t lock up intelligent little girls. Only big bad people.” After Officer Pitt writes her report, we announce it’s time to go. “Where’re we going?” Alexis asks. “To see the doctor,” I say. “But I’m not sick.” I think on my feet. “For a checkup. All healthy girls need a checkup. For school. You’re going to school, aren’t you?” She nods. “We started September 13th.” “Okay then,” I say. She looks around the room in disbelief. “We’re all going?” “Of course,” I say. “I need a checkup. Captain Kangaroo most definitely needs a checkup. Officer Pitt needs a checkup.” “Even mommy?” “Even mommy. Tie those laces.” She ties them. “Ready?” I say. She places my stethoscope to her own chest and listens. “Ready.” I fill out my paperwork during the ride, then present the situation to the triage nurse at Kings County pediatric ER. I lower my voice so Alexis can’t hear. “Possible sexual abuse.” When the nurse asks Alexis if she’s ready to go into the exam room, Alexis says, “Yes.” Then she stops, doubles back, unsnaps a light blue barrette from her hair, and clips it to Bronson’s walrus mustache, where it dangles. Satisfied, she takes the nurse’s hand. But she still has my stethoscope. “Hand it over, Dr. Alexis,” I say. Slinging it around my neck, I wink at her. “I’ll see you when I’m old and you’re the head of this hospital.”

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician with the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.