Bronson and I are working an overnight shift when at 2 a.m. the call comes in for an EDP – an emotionally disturbed person. We get so many of these calls, it’s hard to get very excited. I yawn and rub my eyes: “Why do they always decide to go bonkers in the middle of the night?”

Bronson sighs. He hates these overtime shifts. They’re exhausting and mess up his internal rhythm. Plus, he doesn’t get to sleep beside Rachel, his fiancee, who apparently has moved into his apartment. “There’s a lot about the FDNY I’m really getting sick of,” he says.

“Me too,” I say. The full-time schedule and the required overtime are examples. “I’d like to work part time at a hospital. I get health benefits via my husband – what do I need the FDNY for?” We’re both disillusioned with and tired of the bureaucracy of a city agency. For now, though, we’re still here.

When we get on scene, police officers are talking to a hyper Hispanic male, about 30 years old – average height, average build, maybe a little on the thin side, and wearing a wedding band. His name is Mario. The cops say Mario told them he wanted to kill himself. Whenever anyone says they want to harm themselves in any way, even if they’re just talking in the heat of the moment, EMS must be called. If it seems the patient really does want to hurt himself, he’s brought to the G-building at Kings County Hospital – the psych ward.

“Does he have a history of psych problems or take a psych medication?” Bronson asks one of the cops.

“Crack.”

“He told you that?”

“Yup.”

We approach Mario and bring him gently to the ambulance.

“Have a seat,” I say.

He sits neatly, knees together, but still agitated.

“So, what’s been going on?” Bronson asks affably.

Mario breathes deeply and explains. He says he was at some guy’s house, smoked crack and marijuana, then took a large quantity of the guy’s pills.

“What kind of pills?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you want to hurt yourself?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Why?” I ask. It’s a knee-jerk response, and Bronson shoots me a look: stupid question, don’t go there, not our business, not our area of expertise. He’s right, and I quickly change the subject. “Did you shoot drugs?”

He shakes his head. “No.” Then he contorts his face, lets out a giant sob, and cries, “I hope he didn’t give me AIDS. I’m married with three children!”

Bronson and I blink at each other. “Well, you didn’t sleep with him or share a needle with him,” he says, “so how would you have gotten AIDS?”

Mario thinks about it but still seems upset.

I glove up and take a set of vitals. His heart rate is fast – probably due to the crack in his system, but it could also be the mystery pills. I note everything down on my chart as Bronson radios dispatch that we’re heading toward the hospital. The G-building. We have to. He wanted to hurt himself.

Mario’s eyes close as we bump along over the winter’s fresh potholes. At a red light, he opens them and says, “He wanted me to sleep with him.”

It’s like we’re barfly and bartender here in the back of the bus. The interior lights are dim, the clear plastic saline bottles clink on their shelves. He’s confessing to me, and I have no choice but to listen.

“But you didn’t. So don’t worry about it. All you did was smoke his drugs.”

He keeps staring at me.

“What were those pills, anyway?”

He sighs. “Anti-virals.”

I’m confused. They have no kick, no desirable side-effect. “Why would you take those?”

He starts to cry again. “I needed my fix.”

“But those won’t fix you.”

He’s frustrated. Clearly I’m not understanding. He buries his face in his hands. “I don’t want to get AIDS.”

I’m getting annoyed with him. “But there’s no way you would have gotten AIDS.”

He stares at me, eyes red-rimmed and wet. Then I put it together.

“You slept with him for the crack,” I say. “When he told you he has AIDS, you took the pills in a panic.”

He sobs again. “I have a wife. Children.”

I sigh and wish we were at the hospital already. I look out the window. We’re still some distance away. We have about five more minutes back here together. Five long minutes.

I hand him a rough facial tissue from a small hospital-size box. I can suggest he get an HIV test. That’s the most I can do for him. That’s the most anybody can do for him.

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