It’s another bone-crackingly cold morning when we get a call for a “female injured.” The super of a 1940s brick apartment building in Sheepshead Bay lets me and Bronson, my partner, in, saying, “She’s bleeding.” That’s all he says, despite our questioning. His English is limited, peppered with Russian words we don’t understand.

The super lets us into a first-floor apartment where we find a young Russian woman who, like the super, speaks very little English. Sitting at the kitchen table, she’s pale and ethereal looking, with a round moon face and light brown hair done in a single braid and tied with a yellow rubber band. The back of her hair is a little mussed.

The apartment is done in dark colors accented with gold edging on the furniture – a little gaudy, but clean and fresh smelling. A trace odor of coffee hangs in the air, and I see remnants of breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink.

Then I notice a 2-inch laceration on her scalp, just above the hairline by her ear, which is still bleeding. After asking if she bumped her head on the floor or fell or passed out, she shakes her head, “Nyet.”

Assuming there’s no head trauma, that it’s just a tissue injury, Bronson presses some gauze to her scalp and tells her to hold it there.

I ask her name – she tells me it’s Natalia – and then I ask what happened.

She says haltingly, in broken English, that she took a fall on the ice outside, but when pressed further about how she fell, how she struck her head, her answers become evasive, uncertain, as though she can’t remember.

Bronson stares at her. “Who did this to you?” he asks, point-blank.

Natalia presses her lips together. “Please go now.” We look to the super, who’s looking at her with concern and worry. But he’s not talking. Finally, Natalia comes out with, “My husband hit. With cup.” There’s a mug on the draining board, recently rinsed. It’s heavy and solid, and I’m not surprised it split her scalp. She could use about five stitches. It’s not absolutely necessary, but she’ll heal better, and faster, if the wound is flushed with antiseptic solution and sewn shut. “You need stitches,” I say. “You need to go to the hospital.” She won’t budge. “Come on,” I cajole, “we’ll go to Coney Island.” Half the staff there is Russian. She would feel less foreign. “They’ll stitch you up, you’ll feel better. A few hours and you’ll be out.” She laughs. She knows better. “Whole day.” I look to the super for help. Still nothing. I’m annoyed with him. Bronson takes the firm approach. “We’re not leaving you here,” he says.

But Natalia is resolute.

“Okay, I’m calling the cops,” he says. “If that’s the way you want it. They’ll put you in cuffs and make you go.”

This is not entirely true, but scare tactics seem like a good idea right now. If we decide that her injury is bad enough to require a trip to the ER, and we call cops and an EMS lieutenant to the scene, she might be persuaded. But there’s no law saying she has to go. She’s under 65 and fully alert and oriented. If she were not in her right mind, we would have legal ground to take her. But she’s lucid. She has a right to refuse treatment.

She looks our police threat squarely in the eye. “Nyet.”

I sigh. “Nobody deserves to live like this,” I say.

“I deserve,” she says. Then she suddenly lets forth a stream of Russian words to the super. He listens, and nods. I wonder what their relationship is. I wonder if they are just friends, or something more, and if that is the root of the problem. He seems to be very much at home in this apartment, and on intimate terms with Natalia. The husband could be jealous.

After Natalia finishes, the super looks at us and shrugs. It doesn’t seem useful to ask him to translate. We’re not social workers. There’s nothing social services can do anyway, unless Natalia wants help. “Okay,” I say, and shake my head. I hand her the paperwork and a pen, and she signs the RMA – the refusal of medical assistance. “No cops,” she says. “No in this country.” Feeling useless, we get in our ambulance and drive away.

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.