In between the bursts of high-stress activity, there’s a lot of downtime in emergency medicine – hours you spend cooped up in the front of your vehicle with your partner, talking about personal things, superficial things, or just nothing at all. I’m listening to my partner, Bronson, snore. The bright spring sunshine is heating up the bus, and he’s sleeping like a baby. I should take this quiet time to study my nursing books. I want to go back to nursing school. But I can’t concentrate. I keep expecting a call to come over any minute.

I rustle my newspaper loudly. He stirs.

“Oops,” I say. “Did I wake you?”

He glares at me. But I have a plan. I fold my paper and turn to him.

“What if we, like, hijack the bus,” I say. “Head upstate.” We’d get on the radio and update Central with our approximate location: “We’re on the Henry Hudson.” Twenty minutes later: “We’re on the I-95.” Four hours later: “We’re at Lake George.”

“Do you think they’d stop us at Canada?” I ask.

Bronson sighs and readjusts his sweatshirt behind his head. “You need professional help.”

But the ambulance has two beds in the back, with room enough to stand. It’s like an RV.

“All it needs is a wet-bar,” I say.

He says nothing.

“You never want to have any fun.”

Later, Bronson gets it into his head that the siren sounds exactly like the ghost in the “Scooby-Doo” cartoons. We go flying down Flatbush Avenue, him manipulating the siren knob, Oooo-Oooo-ing everyone at a high-pitched wail, just for the hell of it.

During lunch, I look over at him. “You like me. Admit it.”

He chews. “Shut up.”

“You like me a lot.”

“Shut up, I said.”

“Okay,” I say, chewing. “But you’re smitten.”

He shakes his head and swallows. “I hate the way you drive. You have no sense of direction and are forever getting lost. They should never have given you a license. You’re a menace to society.”

He crumples up his waxed paper, finishes his apple juice, and starts whistling. Bronson can whistle anything: pop songs, opera scores, show tunes. This time, it’s a Rod Stewart song. Over and over again. How many times have I been engrossed in a good novel when he starts whistling the same song like a broken record?

“Stop it,” I say.

He doesn’t.

“Stop it, I said.”

He does, for about a minute. Then starts again. I call my mother on my cell phone and treat Bronson to one-half of a phone conversation. In Greek. Then I call my aunt. Then my best friend.

“What’s that whistling?” she asks.

“Nothing. Just my partner. He’s bored.”

She laughs. “You really have it easy, lounging around all day.”

She doesn’t realize that, according to the EMS gods, after a few hours of downtime, we usually get a serious call. I click off the phone, and Bronson and I guess what it will be.

“Cardiac,” he says.

“Asthma,” I say.

I hold up a pinkie. “Bet.”

“How much?”

“Lunch for the rest of the week.”

He makes a face. “Too easy.” He’s got something better. “If I win, you memorize the streets of Brooklyn and stop getting lost all the time.”

I look to the ceiling of the vehicle for divine intervention. None comes. “If I win,” I say, “you stop whistling.”

He links his pinkie with mine. “Deal.”

We pull apart, and as we do the call comes over: “48-Adam…” the dispatcher’s voice crackles.

“48-Adam,” Bronson radios back.

“Respond to the OB-labor that’s coming over. Acknowledge.”

OB-labor?

“That’s heavy breathing!” I shout. “I win!”

“You said asthma,” he shoots back.

“Close enough!”

He shakes his head. “Women in labor have pain. Sometimes chest pain.”

I put the truck in gear. “Well, if we don’t get there soon, it’s moot,” I say.

He radios Central. “10-4, show us en route.”

I turn on the lights and sirens, drive to the corner, and stop. “Left or right?”

He drops his head in his hands. “Straight ahead.” I pass through the intersection. As I do, he starts whistling.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for 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.