On a cold, rainy day that feels more like February than April, we get a call from the police department for a “sick.” This can mean anything. I ruminate aloud to Bronson: “It’s odd, to drive to a scene you know nothing about.” He says nothing. “I never felt comfortable with this,” I say. “I like predictability.”

“Then you’re on the wrong planet,” he snaps.

I think about what a great partner I have as we pull up to an apartment building on Kings Highway, ring the buzzer, and trudge up to the fourth floor. The police and the firemen are already there. One officer tells us a resident of the apartment below had called the super to complain about a water leak. “The super rang the bell, but no one answered. So he used his key, and called 911 when he found the tenant like this.”

“Like what?” I ask.

He ushers me into the bedroom. On the bed is an emaciated woman of about 80 wearing only underwear. I can count her ribs. Her hip bones jut out. Her stomach is completely sunken. I gently shake her. She opens her eyes. We give her glucose from a tube, squirting clear lemon-flavored gel on the inside of her cheek, just in case she’s a diabetic in insulin shock. It can’t hurt, and can only help.

I radio dispatch for an ETA for the medics, but they’re extended. It would be faster for us to get to Beth Israel only a few blocks away.

In the bathroom, water drips from a full-to-the-brim tub. Bronson pulls the stopper, then goes to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. “No food.” He opens the cupboards. “Zip.”

There’s dried feces on the woman’s legs, an unpleasant detail all too common among the elderly who live alone. “Where’s her family?” I ask the super.

“Her husband is dead. And her son and daughter want nothing to do with her.” He sighs. “She’s ornery. Mean-spirited. She’s just … mean.”

I write up my paperwork; the super tells me she’s only 63. “Medical history?” I ask.

He shrugs. “How the hell would I know?”

I wonder why it is that I’m asking all the questions while Bronson is standing back. He’s usually the one who jumps into geriatric calls. I don’t know what’s bugging him. You’d think spending eight hours in the confined space of an ambulance would make someone open up to you. Not Bronson. At least, not today.

We dismiss the PD and the fire department, and lift the woman, who must weigh only 70 pounds, onto a stair chair and bring her down to the ambulance. “Want a note?” Bronson asks. He means a notification to Beth Israel, done in either critical cases or if the ER staff really should be advised of what we’re bringing in.

“Yes,” I tell him, testily. His laissez-faire attitude is starting to annoy me. “We wanted medics. She’s a mess.”

When we get to the ER, the doctor lifts the sheet, whistles, and shakes his head. “Reminds me of the people in the camps.”

I hate comments like that. They’re supposed to be thoughtful, but really they’re glib. There’s no comparing. But I say nothing to the doctor. The last time I talked back to a doctor, he chewed me up and spat me out. They don’t get through medical school by being nice.

As I’m making a storm in my head and holding my tongue, Bronson impatiently leaves the ER. I’m mad. Can’t a girl even have a moment to quietly fume to herself?

I find him in the ambulance, wiping away tears. “You crying?” I ask, astounded. “Somebody gimme a camera.” He says nothing, which is how I know it’s real. I soften. “You didn’t give a hoot about her before. Why the sudden change?”

He wipes his nose on his sleeve, which is disgusting. “What the doctor said,” he says. “About the camps. My grandmother lost her first family there.”

I didn’t know that Bronson was a second family. I met his grandma Gertie last Chanukah. She’s a live wire, and her potato latkes were awful. In short, she’s a regular New Yorker — with a hidden past, like Bronson.

No. I take that back. There’s no comparing.

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.