The voice crackles over the radio, calling our unit.”41-Charlie, respond to the shot.”

My partner Bronson presses the talk button, “10-4, send it over,” and we stare at the computer screen mounted between our seats, waiting for the information. It’s 9 a.m. on a quiet Monday morning, damp outside, with slate-gray skies.

The computer screen flashes, “SHOT 1412 NEW YORK AV/RALPH AV #6F,” along with information like the time the call first came over, what information was given to the 911 operator, and which police vehicles have been assigned by the dispatcher.

Calls for shots come in many forms. One is “shots fired,” which means someone heard, or thought they heard, a shot, but it’s yet to be confirmed. When you get there (along with the six or eight police officers), the victim, if there ever really was one, is usually gone. We mark these calls 10-90, or “unfounded.” Then there’s the “confirmed shot,” which means there really is one. Your basic shot call is anything in between.

When we get there, it’s confirmed. There’s a trail of cops, like so many breadcrumbs, leading into the Vanderveer Houses. When we step out of the elevator at the sixth floor, more cops point us towards the open apartment door.

Inside, a boy of about 18 is sitting in a chair looking dazed. He’s shirtless, with a do-rag on his head, slouchy jeans, gang colors on his sneakers, and a white towel tied around his middle.

“Isaiah… Isaiah…” a young girl of about 15 is crying, kneeling beside the boy. Assorted female members of the girl’s family stand around, blinking. Apparently, the boy ran into his girlfriend’s apartment after being shot by a supposedly unknown assailant.

I remove the hysterical girl and peel away the white towel to expose a small red hole in the boy’s ebony skin. It’s a small round, the cops say a .22, and from the location in the left upper quadrant of his abdomen, I figure must be lodged somewhere in his large intestine. I tip the boy forward to check his back. There’s no exit wound.

I hope the bullet hasn’t veered upward and struck his lung. The cavitation from high-velocity penetrating trauma can inflict shock-waves of damage on surrounding organs. A hemothorax or pneumothorax (blood or air filling up around the lung and collapsing it) would be life-threatening. I check his lung sounds, they’re clear, and he’s not coughing up any bloody sputum. “Let’s get him onto the stair-chair and get the hell outta here,” I tell Bronson.

While we do this, a young male police officer asks about the identity of the shooter. Isaiah tells them he doesn’t know who shot him.

The officer removes his cap and twists a tiny dreadlock on his head. “You mean you were just walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly a guy jumped out and shot you.”

Isaiah closes his eyes. “Yeah.”

That’s his story and he’s sticking to it.

The cop shakes his head, replaces his cap, and writes down the statement. “Yeah, right.”

Right now the boy seems okay, blood pressure strong, pulse normal, pupils equal and reactive. Skin warm and dry, no signs of shock, though it’s hard to say what kind of internal bleeding is taking place. The idea is to get him to the ER as quickly as possible, before anything happens. If he’s bleeding inside, or if blood or air is building up around his lung, he could crash quite quickly.

Isaiah opens his mouth as if to speak, and dribbles some vomit. No blood in it – that’s good.

“Beautiful,” I tell him. “See what happens when you play with guns? You end up with puke on your face.”

The girl gleans that Isaiah is not in critical condition, and she wipes away her tears and rummages inside a closet for something.

I snap an oxygen mask onto Isaiah’s face, crank the flow valve to 15 liters a minute, and slap a square of gauze over his bullet hole. In seconds, we’re downstairs and inside the ambulance. It’s cold.

“His coat! His coat!” I hear the girl shout from the lobby. She runs up to the ambulance doors and bangs on them. I open them, and she tosses his coat onto the bench seat. Then she begs off. “I don’t really have to come to the hospital, do I? Because I got lots of s— to do today.”

I slam the doors in her face. Isaiah is awake and alert. I want to keep it that way. “Let’s go,” I shout up front to Bronson.

The officer with the mini-dreadlocks rides with us. On the way, he notifies Isaiah’s mother from his cell phone. I don’t hear the mother’s side of the conversation, but from the officer’s expression I can tell she isn’t appropriately terrified.

“At this time your son is not critical,” the officer says.

I mutter, “This whole damn situation is critical.”

The cop covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “It’s a lost cause,” he says. “Don’t waste your emotions. You’ll just burn out.”

“I’m already burnt out,” I say, then point my finger. “So are you.”

The officer continues with Isaiah’s mother.

Bronson calls in a “note,” a notification to central dispatch telling them to alert the Kings County Hospital trauma ER team of our imminent arrival. “41-Charlie, we got an 18-year-old male, gunshot wound to the abdomen, BP 120/80, pulse 80, resps 20, ETA four minutes out.”

A few minutes later, we come crashing in through the ER doors, just like in the movies.

“Got the shot here,” we announce. “Called in a note on the shot.”

It’s quiet in the ER. The doctors and nurses sitting around all look up, confused. “We didn’t get a note,” the head nurse says.

Apparently, dispatch didn’t relay it. Or worse, relayed it to the wrong hospital. Doesn’t matter.

“Well, you’ve got a gunshot now,” I say, handing over the stretcher.

In seconds, Isaiah’s pants are cut off of him, an IV is started, and he’s given an X-ray to see where the bullet is. Lodged right next to the spleen, no real damage. He’s taken to surgery to remove it.

“This is your wake-up call,” I warn him, as he rolls past me.

The cop standing by just shakes his head. “Trouble is, he’s not answering the phone.”

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.