My partner Bronson and I get called for an “unconscious woman” in the basement of a rundown apartment building in East Flatbush.

A 40-year-old Haitian man meets us at the door, lets us in, steps into the elevator with us, and presses B.

“What’s wrong with her?” we ask him.

“She’s on the floor,” he says.

“What’s her name?”

He is hesitant to answer.

“Are you related to her?”

He shakes his head. Then hedges. “I don’t know her name.”

Bronson and I look at each other, then back at the man.

“Does she have any medical problems?”

A pause. “I don’t know.”

I blink. This is ridiculous. “Who are you to her?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about her.”

The elevator doors open on a woman about 30 years old lying face down on the basement concrete next to a pile of overstuffed trash bags. I hear a rat rustling somewhere behind them, and out of the corner of my eye see a waterbug skitter over the piles. The stench is overwhelming.

Bronson and I turn the woman face up. Her body is quivering and her eyes are rolled back in their sockets. My first instinct is she’s having a seizure. But Bronson disagrees. “Trust me,” he says, with authority. “I’ve seen it before.”

We lift the unresponsive woman into the stair chair and when we bump her into the elevator she suddenly comes to and looks all around.

“Ma’am?” I say. “What happened?”

She doesn’t seem to want to talk to us. And as the doors close, I notice the man isn’t in the elevator with us. He’s nowhere to be found.

Inside the ambulance, I take out my paperwork. Unknown woman, unknown date of birth, unknown medical history.

“Do you have any ID?” Bronson asks, as he puts an oxygen mask on her face.

She speaks in a heavy Creole accent. “In my jacket. My boyfriend has it.” Through the rear windows she spots him crossing the street. “There he is.”

I stare at the Haitian man from the building stepping briskly across the street.

“Get him,” she says.

Bronson goes outside and shouts, “Sir!” But the man is already gone.

“He’s gone,” I tell the woman.

She looks perplexed.

“Did you have a fight?” I ask.

She looks forlorn. “Not a fight. We have some problems.” Her brow wrinkles. “He didn’t stop?” Tears come to her eyes. “He kept walking?”

“He claims he doesn’t know you,” I say. “Inside the building, he said he didn’t know your name.”

She looks surprised and crushed. “He don’t…know me?”

“That’s right,” I say, already tired of the sorry situation. “He sounds like a loser. How long have you known him?” I figure about a week.

“Two years,” she says, as tears stream down her cheeks.

She’s young, she’s pretty. She was face down in a pile of garbage. “What were you doing in the basement?” I ask.

“I come over weekends. Cook. Do his laundry down there.”

“Did he hit you?” I ask, though she doesn’t appear to have any bruises.

She shakes her head. “No fight. But we have problems.”

I take a wild stab. “Let me guess. He said he doesn’t want to be with you anymore.”

She gulps and nods, and fresh tears course down her face. I take her blood pressure and pulse. They’re both fine, as are her pupils. No seizure, no stroke. It was an anxiety attack. I stick my head through the little window into the front cab and tell Bronson, “You were right.”

“Told ya,” he says. When we get her to the hospital, I advise her to get that man out of her life. Easy for me to 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.