When we pull up to the Vanderveer Houses, arguably one of the worst housing projects in Brooklyn, I notice a big sign hanging on the side of the building proclaiming that the name has been changed to “Flatbush Gardens.”

“What garden?” I ask my partner Bronson. “The concrete courtyard with the dead body in it?” I’m not being facetious. A month ago we got called to a DOA wrapped in a piece of carpet, tied with wire, and tucked behind one of the benches in the center courtyard. The woman had been bludgeoned and stabbed in the neck.

“It’s the name game,” Bronson says, referring to the idea that if a place’s name is altered, so are its qualities. Invariably, the new names are always florid and twee. “If they try to rename Hell’s Kitchen ‘Chelsea Heights,’ I’ll protest,” he adds. He parks the ambulance at the curb and shuts off the ignition.

I stare at him. “Whoa, tiger.”

I jump out and grab the medical bags. This call is for a “sick,” which usually means nothing serious. We find the right entrance in the maze of identical project buildings, Bronson opens the door, and we’re smacked in the face with the stench of urine and feces. Drug addicts and drunks use the lobby as a bathroom. Bronson hits the elevator button with his elbow, and I try not to touch the walls.

The elevator spits us out on the fifth floor, and we search the doors in the dimly lit hallway for the right one. “Ambulance,” we announce, our voices echoing along the corridor. “Ambulance.”

“Door’s open,” a male voice responds.

We go in. It’s dark except for a light at the end of the hall. The voice calls, “In here.”

We find the patient in the back bedroom, lying in bed. He is very skinny. Fine, wispy hair, covered partially with a shiny polyester scarf, and a thin, pale face complete the picture of unhealthiness, but when I take the man’s blood pressure, I notice some decent muscle tone in his upper arms.

He speaks in a haughty faux-British manner, inconsistent with the environment around him. “I feel unwell,” he states.

“Nauseous?” Bronson asks.

“Yes.”

“Vomiting?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Did you fall down or hit your head?” I ask.

“No.”

“Have you eaten lately?” He really is too thin.

“I had crackers for dinner last night,” he says. “Four of them.”

“Wow. That many.”

Bronson shuts me up. “Because you’re not hungry or because of some other reason?”

The man turns his head slightly and lowers his eyes. “I’m trying to slim.”

“Any bleeding?” Bronson asks. “Diarrhea?”

“No, thank heavens.”

Bronson asks his medical history, a polite way of inquiring about HIV or hepatitis in a patient so thin.

The man seems offended. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with me.”

Bronson’s patience is wearing thin. “Then why did you call 911?”

He closes his eyes. “Because I feel sick.”

Bronson sighs, and tries a different tack. “Do you take any meds?”

The patient points to his nightstand. I pick up a medicine bottle, take out my paperwork, and read the label. A common enough Hispanic last name, and a colloquial first name.

“Larry. Is that short for Lawrence?” I ask.

He glares at me. “Why can’t it be Lorraine?”

Larry’s wearing loose pants and a loose blouse of a slinky synthetic material. I’m annoyed at his vague attempt at impersonating Gloria Swanson, as well as his irritating manner. I’m here to help the man, not play games.

“It can be,” I concede. “I guess your muscle tone threw me.”

The medicine in the bottle is a substance I’m unfamiliar with. I note the milligram strength on my chart, fold up my paperwork, and prepare to move him to my stair-chair. I unsnap the chair and drape a clean white sheet over it. He’s going to be easy, he must weigh only 95 pounds.

“What hospital?” I ask, coldly.

“Methodist,” he says, and glares at me again as we transfer him. Then he says, “You just don’t get it, do you?”

And suddenly, I do. I figure he’s about halfway through his hormone therapy, which is probably what the unusual medication is. His bulk is thinning out, but there are no breasts yet, and his voice is still robust.

As we roll him out of the apartment and into the elevator in the hall, I ask, “Sir? Ma’am, I mean?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “What.”

“Are you starving yourself?”

He doesn’t answer, but as we roll him out of the lobby and into the bright light of this sunny spring day, he takes out a pair of Jackie O sunglasses, flips them open, and slides them onto his face.

“No questions,” he says. “Please, no more questions.”

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.