A call comes in for an emotionally disturbed person, known as an “EDP.” My partner Bronson and I drive to the Vanderveer Houses, one of the worst housing projects in Brooklyn. The hallways look bombed out and the elevators reek of urine.

We’re met downstairs by a city marshal, who explains he’s here to serve a woman named Annie Prather with eviction papers. Bronson raises his eyebrows at me. To be evicted from a housing project a tenant has to not pay rent for well over a year. City agencies grind slowly.

But the city marshal looks pained. “You should see this place,” he says as he rides with us up the elevator, his voice gentle. “I think she was trying to crawl through the wall.”

The elevator doors open on two police officers standing at Ms. Prather’s apartment door. They look like they’re not sure what to do. I peer past them.

The one-bedroom apartment is devoid of furniture. No chairs, no tables, no kitchen appliances. Just plaster rubble on the floor and newspapers strewn everywhere. Ms. Prather seems to have made her bed on a pile of New York Posts; a nest of them sits in one corner. A small hammer and chisel rests on what’s left of a windowsill. The wall is so far gone in one section that it’s about to open up into the next apartment.

“She’s breaking right through,” the marshal says. “The neighbor called 311 to complain.”

At that, Ms. Prather comes out of the bathroom, pulling a thin beige raincoat around her. She’s a petite woman of about 35 with dreadlocks pulled neatly into a simple thick ponytail. Her eyes are slightly crossed, but she has an innocent face. “I just have to get my purse,” she says, politely.

I try to make eye contact, but she avoids me. “Annie,” I say. “Do you know where we are?”

She doesn’t glance at me. “You’re taking me to the doctor,” she says, looking for her purse, but smiling sweetly.

The marshal tells me that Ms. Prather told him she has schizophrenia and that she’s run out of her medicine and needs to see the doctor to get more. She looks to be about 110 pounds, a good weight for her petite frame, and her skin looks healthy.

“It’s amazing she’s not malnourished,” I whisper to Bronson, “that she gets it together enough to eat meals.”

One of the officers says, “She panhandles on Rogers Avenue every afternoon.”

I imagine her counting out her change and buy ing junk food at McDonald’s. Then coming back home and continuing chipping away at the walls.

She finally finds her purse behind a doorknob and steps into the hall. “Ready,” she says.

I close the door – leaving it unlocked, since she has no key – and we make our way down. I think about where we’re going, and cringe inside. I ask, “Annie, have you ever been to the G-Building?”

The G-Building is the psych ward at Kings County Hospital. It’s where forgotten people go, people who have no family, no insurance, no one to look out for them. It’s the bottom line of city agencies, the last safety net before the street. Upon passing through the air-lock whoosh of the double security doors, the stench of feces immediately assaults your nose. You are then swept into a mass of lost souls wandering the hallways, where cafeteria food is spilled across the floors, the people incessantly bother each other, and no one gets any rest. It’s the cinematography behind every psych-hospital movie.

Ms. Prather answers positively. “The doctor at the hospital. Yes, I see him regularly. My psychiatrist.”

I want to make this perfectly clear. “So you’ve spent time in the G-Building.”

She turns away, suddenly miffed. “We’ll let the doctor decide about that,” she says and nods to herself. “Yes, we’ll just see what the doctor has to say.”

Bronson drives. It’s wise to have someone of the same gender in back with an EDP. I buckle Ms. Prather into the bench seat and she sits primly, shoes together, hands folded in her lap holding her Medicaid health benefits card. I begin my paperwork, asking her name, date of birth, and Social Security number. I write down a basic outline of her situation: that she ran out of meds a while ago, for whatever reason has not refilled her prescription, and has since dissolved into a psychological crisis. Emergency workers frequently witness outpatients suddenly become street-people. It’s not that they’re homeless; it’s that they can’t remember where their homes are.

I come to the part of the paperwork I always dread: next of kin. I try to word it in a way that’s palatable, and I almost always fail. “Do you have any family?” I ask. “Any family members?”

Annie shakes her head.

“Mother?” I say. “Father?”

“No,” she says, and pronounces her words carefully. “They’re both deceased.” She stares straight ahead at the clear acrylic cabinets filled with first aid supplies.

“So, there’s no one we can call?” I’m hoping there’s a relative, somewhere.

“No,” she says and, exasperated, finally makes eye contact with me as the ambulance stops at the doors of the G-Building. “There’s no one.”

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.