We’re parked at the Holy Cross Cemetery, in Brooklyn, watching the squirrels leap and play among the tombstones, when my partner, Bronson, shuts the automatic windows and turns on the air-conditioning.

I immediately roll my window back down in protest. We’ve been playing the window game ever since the first warm days of spring. To me, winter is finally over and I refuse to shiver when I can have warm humid air on my skin, polyester uniform or no.

But Bronson’s annoyed. “You’re probably the type of girl who puts on socks when it drops below 70 degrees.”

“Seventy-five,” I say. I’m not lying, either. I sigh audibly and roll my window back up halfway. “I don’t even own an air-conditioner.”

He looks at me as if the pods have taken over. “I couldn’t live without AC.”

“That’s because you’re addicted to climate control.” I tell him about my neighbor who had her air-conditioner going on a cool 65-degree day. “It’s people like you who are responsible for the greenhouse effect. Remember, before AC? We got by.” Now, I tell him, everything is hyper-refrigerated. “When you have to put on a sweater just to go into a movie theater, you know something’s wrong.”

As I’m complaining, a gust of diesel exhaust floats through my window, and I shut it all the way.

“Car fumes contribute to the greenhouse effect,” he says.

I sigh again and stare out the windshield at the rows of tombstones. “We’re doomed.”

As if to add to the mood of gloom, we get a call for a “hanged man.” According to the computer screen mounted between Bronson and me, he’s struggling on the rope, unable to get down.

This is unique, and Bronson goes full speed, flashing the lights and sirens.

“According to the computer,” I say, “the patient, a Mexican male, is apparently ‘too tall for the rope.’ “

Bronson says, “A too-tall Mexican?”

When we get there, paramedics are already on scene. One’s inside the ambulance, the other greets us outside.

“Is he conscious?” I ask.

The medic is calm. “He’s fine. Strangled a bit on the rope. Girlfriend cut him down, but nicked his throat while she was at it. We have him boarded and collared.” This is done to prevent any further spinal damage. “My biggest problem is: I’ve got a dead battery,” he says.

Their truck is one of the oldest ones in the fleet. “You left the lights on?” I ask.

He shrugs. “The AC. Gotta have AC.”

I glare at Bronson. “And there you have it.”

Bronson swings down from the driver’s seat and goes to the side compartment to get out the jumper cables.

I climb into the driver’s seat and park our vehicle nose to nose with the medics’ vehicle. When Bronson attaches the alligator clamps, I jump out and stand back, scared of high voltage.

I check on the patient. He’s in his 20s, and indeed quite tall, his feet dangling off the long board the medics have strapped him to. He looks uncomfortable with the cervical collar fastened tightly around his neck and the tape stuck to his eyebrows. His girlfriend, crying, looks at me pleadingly.

I try to communicate, but the patient speaks no English. Neither does his girlfriend, so there’s not a lot of information to gather. All we know is: He tried to hang himself, and bungled it. I take the medics’ paperwork and copy everything onto my own. Then I take a fresh set of vitals and note these down on both my paperwork and the medics’ forms.

Meanwhile, outside, the situation is not good. Bronson can’t seem to start the medics’ vehicle. They radio central dispatch that we’re extended on scene due to mechanical failure, and Bronson and I decide to take the patient in our vehicle. We unload him and help the girlfriend down, when one of the medics decides to try it one more time. He flips the battery switch, turns the key, and – presto! – the engine starts.

We load the patient back into the medics’ ambulance and help the girlfriend back up. She’s still crying, her boyfriend is still post-suicidal, and we can’t explain any of this to her. But clearly we’re bungling the whole job. If she could speak English, she’d give us a mouthful. As it is, she looks ready to spit in my eye.

I ride in the medics’ vehicle while Bronson follows in our truck.

After we drop off the patient at the hospital, I tell Bronson, “You see the problems AC can cause?”

Bronson replies, “Poor guy probably tried to hang himself because his girlfriend kept shutting off their AC.”

We get in our truck. He turns up the air-conditioning. I open my window.

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.