At 6 a.m., my partner Bronson and I are sitting in our truck on Cortelyou and Rugby eating breakfast from John’s Bakery, a mainstay of this historic district near Brooklyn College, where the houses, 15-room Victorian mansions, are slowly being renovated back to their former glory. I’m halfway through my sandwich when the call comes in for an injury on the next block, and in seconds we’re in front of a three-story gingerbread masterpiece, complete with spindle cornices, wraparound porch, and two chimneys. The paint is peeling, though, and the windows look drafty.

We’re met on the porch by Mr. and Mrs. Sorgenti, neighbors who tell us that William Post is elderly and doesn’t get around very well. He’s got no living relatives, so they check up on him. Last night, they say, they put him to bed.

“But when I went upstairs this morning,” Mr. Sorgenti says, “he was on the floor. He said he tumbled out of bed. He really needs to go into a nursing home. But he refuses.”

The porch boards sag and groan under our feet, and the front door is heavy. A sign taped to the glass reads, “Warning: Attack Cat.” Bronson and I go inside.

In response to our footfalls, a stuffed toy cat perched on the radiator jiggles and lets out a mechanical meow. I jump, and then look around as my eyes adjust to the dim light filtered through the stained glass windows. When they do, I gasp.

It looks like nothing’s been touched in at least 50 years. Every visible surface is heaped with the debris of decades: piles of papers, books, old record players – the kind that also play 78s – old black-and-white TV sets with knobs and rabbit-ear antennas. Every bureau drawer is pulled out to almost breaking, overflowing with papers and bills. There are bill stubs the likes of which I’ve never seen before, from the 1950s and ’60s.

In the center of everything is a grand staircase with an ornate balustrade. Each tread is so stacked with papers and books there’s only a narrow space through which to pass. On the second floor, the old rugs are so worn away that the under-padding wafts up in a powdery dust with every step. Through that, intricate herringbone parquet is visible.

In a house where a person has never thrown anything out, you can see the patterns of his movements. In the hallway, perched high on a stack of old law books, is a Styrofoam cup with fresh coffee in it. Our man has been walking around recently. Probably yesterday, which is consistent with the story the neighbor tells us.

We enter the bedroom to find an approximately 85-year-old man lying on the floor beside his bed, eyes closed behind coke-bottle glasses, a pillow tucked under his head.

“I put it there when I found him,” Mr. Sorgenti says.

I lean over the man on the floor. “Mr. Post?” I say.

His eyes open. “Hi there.”

“Hi Mr. Post. What are you doing on the floor?”

He’s wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. It’s warm in the airless room, but it doesn’t smell bad. Mr. Post has managed to keep himself clean, despite the fact that he uses walkers and crutches to get around – I spot assorted ones leaning against the piles of stuff. I also note that beside his bed, a bureau sags with the weight of the last 50 years, ready to spill over in an avalanche of papers and trinkets and bury Mr. Post.

“I took a tumble off the bed,” he says.

To ascertain Mr. Post’s mental status, Bronson asks him where he is, what time of day it is, and who the president is. Mr. Post goes further: He tells us the vice-president, the attorney general, and the secretary of state. He knows exactly why the war started, when the president’s term of office expires, where his polling venue is, and when election day is. He goes on to list all the U.S. presidents, backwards, along with their vice-presidents.

I stop him at Eisenhower to ask his medical history. He tells me the exact date of an old knee operation (August 14, 1981), and, when I ask for his health insurance card, tells me where it is in his wallet stuffed with other cards. He tells me the exact order of the cards, including their expiration dates.

“I’m legally blind,” he adds. That explains his acute memory.

Still, I’m amazed at how he maneuvers through the house.

“When were you born?” I ask.

“October 12, 1918.” He waits a beat. “In this house.”

That would explain the pathways of routine. Mr. Sorgenti tells us Mr. Post was a major in the army. He never married. After World War II he moved back home with his mother. On the wall, a dusty velvet banner reads “Amherst ’42.” Alongside it are military medals and commendations and old memorabilia from Berlin.

“My wife and I moved here in ’68,” Mr. Sorgenti says. “As far as I know, William’s never left the house.” He looks at me. “Ever.”

Mr. Post hasn’t left his house in at least 35 years. I let that sink in.

“Major,” I say, “I’m going to check you out, see if anything’s broken. Does anything hurt? Tell me if it hurts.” I palpate his head, neck, shoulders, and rib cage. Bones are brittle at his age, and I worry that something’s snapped. There’s a bruise on his cheek, but no swelling. “Does this hurt?”

“No,” he says. When I press his pelvis to check for fractures, he giggles. “That tickles.”

Mr. Sorgenti runs a hand through his hair. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that William?”

Mr. Post chuckles. “So they say.”

I palpate down his legs. “Can you move them?”

He makes a motion like he’s riding a bike in the air. The only damage I can see is bloody abrasions to his knees, curiously inconsistent with a fall out of a bed.

I bandage both knees and we call for backup to hoist him off the floor, into a chair, and down the treacherous stairs. Meanwhile, I check his vitals. Blood pressure and pulse are good. Pupils are equal and reactive to light. He takes no medications, has no medical problems.

I write up my paperwork, letting him talk. He’s making sense, which means he doesn’t have a head injury. He asks me if I’ve ever seen “Third Watch.”

When I tell him no, he says that TV is mostly garbage these days anyway. Then he recounts a particular episode of the Jackie Gleason Show, recalling every skit and gag right down to the commercial breaks and what was advertised.

I’m annoyed when we’re interrupted by our backup unit before he can finish. I go downstairs to let them in.

They look around in amazement. “Jesus H. Christ.”

I lead them upstairs, and together we lift Mr. Post, wrap a sheet around him, sit him in a chair, and carry him downstairs. “Easy,” I tell the backup. “It’s his first time outside in 35 years.”

Mr. Sorgenti takes me aside and asks, “Will he be coming back?”

“That depends on what the doctors say,” I tell him. “He’s got no living relatives to care for him.”

On Rugby Road, the tall plane trees drop an occasional leaf out of the clear blue sky. A fine breeze is blowing.

Mr. Post squints in the sunlight. “It certainly is a beautiful day.”

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.