We get a call to a discount clothing and wig store on Flatbush and Church avenues for injuries sustained during a robbery.

When we get there, I see bodies scattered all over the floor.

“MCI,” I tell my partner Bronson – mass-casualty incident – and reach for my radio to call for backup. I even see a gun on the floor. I’m surprised the police aren’t here, and wonder why we weren’t notified of the seriousness of the crime.

The shopkeeper is sitting behind his cash register holding a towel to his bloody face. I’m afraid to go inside. The perp might still be there.

Then I realize: They’re mannequins, plastic arms and legs scattered everywhere in a scene of artificial carnage. The gun is a plastic toy gun.

A police officer comes out from the back of the store.

“Don’t touch anything,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” I say, stepping over the plastic limbs. I approach the shopkeeper and check out his face. “What happened?”

He removes the bloody towel. “What happened is kids throw rock in window, break everything!” he shouts in a Chinese accent. A fairly large brick is lying on the floor in front of the shattered plateglass window, and the window display, featuring a rack of knockoff Sean-John baggy jeans, has been taken. A rack of plastic water pistols – water-Uzis, actually – has also been smashed to the floor and scattered. They’re realistic, not pastel tinted but colored gray and black. “Then they take and they run,” the shopkeeper says.

I check the man’s face for lacerations and find a few glass fragments buried alongside his nose. “You’re lucky these didn’t hit your eye,” I say, picking them out with tiny pincers I keep in my duty belt for just such emergencies.

He scoffs. “Lucky. Yeah.”

Countless wig heads stare at us, sloe-eyed and pointy-chinned, under their outrageous dos.

“Did anybody get a description of the kids?” I ask.

“I tell police everything,” the shopkeeper says. “I see everything. Bad kids from high school.” He means Erasmus Hall, right down the street. “No carry books. Make trouble.”

“No argument there,” I say, and wipe his cuts with normal saline and multiple squares of gauze.

He goes on to describe what they looked like, giving the police officers heights, weights, what they were wearing, and any distinguishing marks or facial hair. Unfortunately, the descriptions he gives could fit any number of young people I see walking past the broken storefront, peering in.

“We’ll canvass the area, sir,” one of the officers says, filling out his paperwork, “and see what we come up with.”

While Bronson takes the man’s vital signs and fills out our paperwork, I deposit the bloody gauze pads in a red biohazard bag and exchange my soiled gloves for new ones. The man doesn’t need stitches. I bandage up his face and ask him if he wants to go to the hospital.

“No hospital!” he stomps his foot, flinging the blood-pressure cuff off his arm. “Police! Take kids to jail!”

The police officer says something about minors and vandalism charges, desk-ticket appearances and fines, and being released to their parents. But the truth is that the vandals will probably never even be caught.

“You country crazy!” the shopkeeper shouts. “Get out! All of you, get out!”

The police officers sigh, finish interviewing the shopkeeper, and take their leave, just as the shopkeeper’s family members arrive with a sheet of plywood for the 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.