My partner, Bronson, is a changed man. He’s in love. As a result, I’ve noticed some differences in him. He’s still fun to work with, but less wild, taking fewer chances with unstable patients. His driving has also gotten better. Sometimes I don’t even fasten my seatbelt.

“Look at that,” I say, as we speed to a call at the 71st Precinct station house, on Empire Boulevard in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. “You’re driving like you actually have a license from this country.”

We pull up alongside a row of parked police cars. Inside, the police are holding a handcuffed Hispanic male, about 25 years old.

I ask the sergeant, “Whaddaya got?”

“We locked this guy up for robbery, ripping off a lady’s handbag as she was trying to get her baby stroller down a flight of steps. Then he started shouting he was God and needed the money to finance his campaign. Started thrashing around in the back of the police car.”

“Any injuries?”

“None that I can see, but we don’t want to uncuff him in the cell and have him hurt himself.”

I ask the patient his name. He doesn’t answer, so the sergeant reads from the paper, “Jesus Hernandez,” then gives me his age, date of birth, and address – in cop lingo, his “pedigree.”

I tell the sergeant we’ll take him to the G-Building, the psych ward of Kings County Hospital, which is where we bring every EDP – emotionally disturbed person – who’s placed in our care.

The sergeant says he’ll have the two cops escort me. “But first shackle his legs,” he tells them.

It’s an unusual restraint. “Is that necessary?” I ask. Not because of the severity of it, but because it makes it awkward for the patient to walk, and I don’t want any injuries to the patient while he’s in my care.

The sergeant looks at me evenly. “Unless you want him to kick you in the head.”

I sigh. “Shackle him.”

Shuffling the patient to the bus, I ask him what happened. I always like to get an EDP’s own version of the events. It’s usually entertaining, at least.

He answers me vaguely, something about not being able to compete with Mayor Bloomberg in the election.

“Bloomberg is running for mayor, not God,” I say.

He sighs. “I really don’t see the difference.”

In the bus, we strap him firmly to the stretcher. En route to the G-Building, he starts to get fidgety and tries to stand up on the stretcher, yelling, “I am God! I am God!”

The patient is going from docile to manic. I have no idea if this is neurosis or psychosis, hallucination or schizophrenia. Before I can come to any personal conclusion, he calms down again.

When we get to the G-Building, the cops unload their weapons and put the bullets in their pockets. No loaded weapons are allowed in the city psych ward: EDPs might grab an officer’s gun.

We go through the first set of double doors and the loud air-lock whoosh engulfs us. The doors slide shut, and security waits a moment before unlocking the inner doors. This is done so patients already inside cannot escape as new patients enter.

Once inside, the smell of urine and feces assaults us. As usual, the place is airless and humid, and cafeteria food is sprayed out across the linoleum halls. A couple of psych patients wander over to see the newcomer.

Our patient shouts, “I am God!” and starts quoting scripture.

I try to get him to calm down, but it’s no use; he’s on a roll. The other patients start raising their palms skyward and rocking back and forth, in testimony. “Praise the Lord!” they shout. “Preach it!”

We turn him over to the desk nurse, who’s safely behind Plexiglas, and hand a carbon copy of our paperwork to the administrator, also behind Plexiglas, who looks a little deranged herself from working here too long. Even the guards seem to have a maniacal glint in their eyes. This whole place is absurd, and I want to get out – fast.

Back through the air-lock double doors, we emerge into fresh air and sunlight.

I take a deep breath. “Praise the Lord,” I say.

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.