In the ambulance, I’m reading an article about domestic abuse. “Apparently it’s on the rise,” I tell my partner, Bronson, who’s sitting in the driver’s seat studying something about electrons and plasma in his physics textbook.

“Excellent,” he says, absently. “I can think of some women I’d like to abuse.”

I fold the paper. “First of all, you’re not that stupid. Second of all, you’re not that strong.” Bronson is a weakling. It’s a topic that irritates him. He goes back to his textbook.

I peek at it. “Lovely,” I say. “Is there any math in there? Or only Greek letters?”

He taps the book. “Real men do physics.”

I hold up an arm. “And real women arm-wrestle. Care to lose again?”

We’re interrupted by a call for an “injury.”

“Ding!” he says.

“Saved by the bell,” I tell him, as he shifts the truck into gear.

We arrive at a small apartment building in the Muslim section of Coney Island Avenue and walk up to 3G. Inside, a woman of about 30 is sitting in a kitchen chair. She is wearing a thin, fawn-colored, long-sleeved garment over her street clothes, and her head is covered in a scarf of the same color, pinned at her temples and under her chin. On the wall is a photograph of three children, about 5, 7, and 9.

“What’s the problem, Ma’am?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I no have called.”

This confuses me, until I realize she means she shouldn’t have called.

“I no have called. I no hurt,” she repeats.

I take a deep breath. “Ma’am, somebody called 911, and until we know what’s going on, we’re not leaving.” I get angry when people activate the 911 system, then think they can just tell us to go away.

Bronson places a hand on my shoulder to signal he’s taking over. He does this whenever I start to lose my cool. “Ma’am,” he says, “we were told there was an injury, that someone was hurt.”

The woman looks at him fearfully. For all his skinniness, he does look impressive, standing tall in his uniform. She looks at the floor. “My back,” she says meekly. “I burned.”

I put my hand on Bronson’s shoulder. “Exit stage left,” I tell him. Once he’s safely in the hall and out of sight, I ask the woman to point out exactly where she was hurt.

She reaches around and touches her upper back, wincing. “

Ma’am,” I say, “you’re going to have to remove your gown.” I call out over my shoulder, “Bronson, you stay put.” Once the woman has unzipped her wrap and released her shoulder, I pull her blouse away from her body to see what we’ve got.

It’s a triangle-shaped burn, complete with little holes from the part of the iron that releases the steam.

“Burns to the left scapula,” I call out to Bronson, who is writing up the paperwork.

“First degree or second?” he calls back.

“Second, looks like,” I say. “But no blistering yet.” I think, quite seriously, that it was a good thing the iron was set at polyester and not cotton. Still, I use a saline-soaked moist dressing and cover the whole area with a burn sheet. The burn, covering only 2% of her body, is not critical. But it’s certainly painful.

I take a quick set of vitals from her exposed arm: blood pressure from her upper arm, then feeling her wrist for her pulse. I shout out the numbers to Bronson. When I’m done, I tell the woman she can zip up. Then I call Bronson back into the kitchen.

He says, “Your husband did this?” The woman doesn’t answer.

“Nice guy,” he mumbles. He asks the woman to spell her name. She refuses. He asks her medical history, and if she takes any medications. Again, she is silent.

“Which hospital would you like to go to?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No hospital.”

I should already know to expect this, but it always comes as a surprise. Bronson looks up from his paperwork. “Ma’am, you have a second-degree burn to most of your shoulder blade. You need to be seen by a doctor.”

She shakes her head. “No. Look. I put ice.” She gets up and opens the freezer, takes out an ice cube tray. “See? Is good.” She dumps a few cubes into a Ziploc baggie.

I know better than to try and talk her out of it. It’s already 2 p.m. Her children will be coming home from school soon.

“Okay,” I say. “Listen. You have a little bit of time. Go to the drugstore and buy some Johnson & Johnson’s First Aid Cream.” I write it down in block letters on a piece of paper, so she can show the pharmacist. “It’ll soothe the skin. Put it on as often as you need it. And keep the ice on it as well. You should start to blister in a few hours. Don’t break the blisters. Leave them alone. In a few days, they will disappear. Then you should start to heal.”

I don’t know how much of this she understands, but the name of the cream and me nodding and smiling at the ice cube tray have crossed our linguistic and cultural chasm, I hope. Finally, I come to the question I have to ask.

“Do you want to report this?” I say, thinking about the statistics I’d just read in the paper.

She looks at me uncomprehendingly.

“The police,” I say. “Do you want the police?”

She doesn’t even have to think about it. “No,” she says, and something in her tone of voice makes me realize there’s no point in even arguing.

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.