Bronson and I have just left Lutheran Hospital after dropping off a patient, but are sitting in the ambulance for a moment before hitting the available button — it’s been a busy day and I want to enjoy my iced tea. I’m jiggling the ice cubes around when someone knocks on the window.

I look up and see a Hispanic boy, about 8 years old, sitting on a bicycle with playing cards stuck in the spokes of the tires. I remember doing that as a child and want to tell him, but he’s upset, crying and shaking with those shudders little kids get when they cry too much.

I put my iced tea aside and get out. “What’s wrong?” I ask, putting my arms around him. He has redness and swelling on his face, and there’s a bruise under one eye. “Did you get beat up?” I usher the child into the back of the bus.

“Make sure no one takes my bike,” he manages to say, between hiccups.

I bring the bike inside, lean it against the bench seat, and turn to him. “Okay, what happened?” I say.

He cries even more, so I sit down next to him on the stretcher and put my arms around him. “Shh,” I say, speaking softly, and ask him again what happened.

Between gasps, he manages to get out that his mommy was drinking and that she hit him again. He’s still crying, and I wipe his nose as best I can with a square of gauze, then wet another one and wipe his tear-streaked face. I hold him, rock him a little, and make little soothing noises in his ear.

“Times like this, I’m glad I have a female partner,” Bronson says. I raise the boy’s shirt to examine him, and find what appear to be scars from cigarette burns. I really don’t know for sure, I’ve never seen an actual cigarette burn, but what else can they be? They’re not on his arms, they’re only where his shirt covers them.

“Smart lady,” I mutter.

Bronson turns away. He has a baby son and I know this sickens him as much as it does me.

“Okay sweetie,” I tell the boy. “We’re going to take you into the hospital and get you fixed up.”

“No shots!” he wails.

“No, no shots. Just going to put Band-Aids on your boo-boos.”

I pick him up and, hugging him, carry him from the ambulance across the street to the pediatric emergency room. As I cross the street, I think how, even in my worst parenting moment, I cannot imagine burning a child with a cigarette.

Bronson carries the bike, and calls for a police car to respond from the 72nd Precinct.

Inside the hospital, the boy is examined by a triage nurse. She’s experienced, and gently asks him smart questions designed to get pertinent information without leading the witness. I sit holding his hand and encourage him to answer. She writes down his replies, and I get out my paperwork and jot down what I can.

The police show up a couple of minutes later, and one officer starts asking the boy questions: “Where’s your mom?”

“Home,” the boy replies, crying. He gives us his address, and asks if we could please put his bike inside the building, next to apartment 6D, so no one will steal it. I have half a mind to go inside 6D and show that drunken woman the business end of a baseball bat. I don’t care about whether she was abused as a child. Somebody needs to get through to her: You Don’t Burn Children With Cigarettes.

“Do you have any other brothers and sisters?” the cop asks.

“No,” the boy answers.

Thank God, I think.

“Don’t worry,” the cop says, “We’ll find a good home for you. You won’t have to go back there again.”

Idiot, I think. The last thing you tell a child who’s been hit all his life is that he’s going to be taken from the only home he knows.

Immediately, the boy panics. I try to hold onto him as best I can, but he’s suddenly a wild thing. “I want my mommy! I want to go home!” he cries, and actually manages to break free from my grip before I manage to gather him back into my arms and just hug him tight.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician on an ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.