It’s another hot and humid day, and once again my partner, Bronson, is cranking the air conditioner up to arctic temperatures.

“Hypothermia,” I say.

“Henpecker,” he replies.

I put my book down. “Why don’t you just park under a tree and let’s enjoy the summer a little?”

He ignores me. “Bok-bok-bok.”

“Gee,” I say, “things sure have changed around here.”

Since summer started, we’ve been getting on each other’s nerves. It’s hard when partners who have to share a small space for eight hours can’t agree on basic things like climate. I get out of the truck and blow on my fingers to warm them up. After a long cold winter, I was looking forward to sweating a little. But when it comes to the air-conditioner wars, it seems like the men always win.

I get back in and glare at him. The radio crackles, and we get a call to the 70th Precinct for an “injury.”

“Riot,” Bronson says, sarcastically.

“Probably fighting over the AC in the jail cells,” I say. When we get there, the cops tell us they have a guy under arrest complaining of a cut from a knife from his girlfriend.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” one cop responds.

“Didn’t you check?” “Nope.”

They bring us down a hallway and into the cell area, where they’ve just finished removing the prisoner’s shoelaces and belt. From a distance, I can see scratches and bruises on his face and arms, but they’re superficial. “He didn’t get any of those from being arrested?” I ask the officer.

“Nope,” he says. “He came quite willingly. Nice enough guy. Not from around here. He says his girlfriend cut him in the leg.”

We enter the dingy cell and approach the patient. He’s tall, about 6 feet, and lanky, with buzz-cut blond hair and a ginger-colored goatee.

He smiles. “Sorry y’all had to come down here for this.” His heavy Southern accent throws me. “I didn’t want y’all, but the deputy here said ya had to check me out.”

Deputy. I think of Mayberry and Barney Fife.

The cops chuckle, but the prisoner is apologetic and sincere as he shows us his bruises. “I feel real bad botherin’ y’all.”

“No problem,” I say. “Got into a scuffle with your girlfriend?”

He smiles. “Yes ma’am. She threw a knife at me, caught me in the leg.” He sticks out his thigh.

“Are you bleeding?” I ask, unable to tell since his jeans are black and the frayed incision isn’t big enough to look through.

“I don’t think so.”

I glove up. “Well, we’re going to have to take a look at it.” His pants hang off his bony hips. “Either roll them up or drop ’em.”

He gets a sly smile on his face. “Ya want me to drop my pants?” I look at Bronson. Bronson looks at me. I look back at the prisoner.

“Seeing as I don’t have X-ray vision, I guess so.”

“Okay,” he says, and unzips them. They fall to his ankles.

He’s got no underwear on.

“Never wear ’em in hot weather,” he says. He fans his face. “Speaking of which … sure is warm in here. Don’t y’all have any AC?”

Bronson shoots me a look, then tells the prisoner, “Some woman probably complained.”

I make a quick inspection of the prisoner’s thigh. There’s barely a scratch. I wipe it with normal saline and apply a small gauze pad. “Okay, pull your pants back up.”

The cops are all laughing.

The prisoner too. He zips up, then waves a hand in the air, as if to cast a spell. “Alls y’all are real friendly up here. Back in Texas, they would a hog-tied me.”

I fill out the paperwork to reflect a lack of injuries, and the fact that the patient is not going to the hospital. When I turn to look, the cops, the prisoner, and Bronson are all laughing over something and having a grand old time.

“Hey, deputy,” I say, calling over the cop. I hold out the paper. “Get your sheriff to sign this.”

Still laughing, he scribbles his name across it and hands it back to me.

I don’t know why I’m in a sour mood, but I am. I take a deep breath and start over. Walk to where the men are all standing. The prisoner is telling everyone a story about how his mother once saw Jesus in the spotted markings of a cow.

“That heifer drew folks from the whole county,” he says. “People paid us money just to touch her forehead. That’s how come I’m up here instead of workin’ on the farm.”

“Holy cow,” I say, “that must be some cash cow.” But nobody gets it. Even Bronson looks at me like I’m from Mars. I sigh. “I’ll be waiting out in the truck,” I say, and make my exit.

I climb into the front seat and break off a piece of wooden tongue depressor in the AC control panel so that it jams at “Low.” Then I lean back, close my eyes, and conjure up a cow with an image of Jesus on it.

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.