We finish up a job, Bronson presses the “available” button, and the radio dispatcher immediately hits us with an “injury” in the Cypress Projects, in East New York. “Great,” Bronson says, annoyed because it’s way out of our area.

We enter a filthy project lobby and are assaulted by the stench of urine. The smell is even stronger in the elevator. “Eau de Project,” Bronson quips.

On the floor of our call, a battered metal apartment door is opened by a young girl of about 14 dressed in short-shorts and a halter top. “It’s my brother,”she says, lighting a fresh Newport from an old butt. “Those’ll kill ya,” I say, and she gives me a dirty look.

The apartment is typical of the projects: boxy rooms, institutional-looking windows, low ceilings. It’s not very clean. We find the patient lying on the couch: a tall male about 6-feet-2-inches, 220 pounds, and very muscular. His eye is swollen. I whip out my paperwork while Bronson takes vitals and asks how old he is.

“Seventeen,” he says.

I’m shocked. He looks like he’s in his late 20s.

“Great,” I mutter. Now we need to find his guardian before we can take him to the hospital.

“What happened?” Bronson asks.

He places an arm across his forehead. “Had a fight with someone in the courtyard. Got effed up.”

I break a chemical ice pack for his eye and hand it to him. “Is there an adult to accompany you?”

He swings his legs over the side of the couch like an old man. “My moms will meet us out front.”

We escort him downstairs and two police officers meet us at the curb. We tell them it’s okay, they can go, but as we help the patient into the ambulance, I hear a male voice yell out and just barely manage to look to where the voice is coming from when a young guy runs toward me in a blur. My first instinct is to duck — and I hope Bronson’s is, too, because I’m not looking out for him at all; some partner I am, but there you have it.

But the guy’s not after me. He jumps at the patient and punches him repeatedly in the face. The patient goes down and I hear elbows and knees grinding against concrete, a sickening sound. Hollywood fight scenes sound fake. Real fistfights are silent, just the smacking sound of knuckles meeting flesh. The police officers grab the assailant, who shouts expletives. Cuffing a raging man is hard work, and Bronson helps the officers as best he can, but he’s tall and skinny, and isn’t really able to do much, despite all his jujitsu lessons. He’s pretty pathetic, in fact; I steer clear of the scuffle and suspect that it’s times like these that Bronson probably wishes he had a male partner.

I put on fresh gloves and help our patient stand. He has a bloody face and, as I wipe the blood away with sterile gauze splashed with sterile water, he pushes me aside and cries out, “Mom!”

I turn my head and see a heavyset woman running up to him and embracing him as the crowd that has gathered starts laughing.

Bronson comes over to me, out of breath.

“Nice cuffing, Mr. Kung Fu,” I say.

“Strange,” he says, ignoring my comment. “A tough project kid, looking much older than his years, gets clobbered, and yells for his mommy.”

I don’t care. “Don’t forget the chain-smoking 14-year-old sister,” I add.

“Me, at least I knew I couldn’t fight,” he muses, “so I never mixed with the tough boys. Can you guess the hell he’s going to catch from his homies, who most certainly would also cry for their mothers in a similar predicament?”

Bronson sighs. “The way I see it, he’s only in for more clobbering.”

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.