The call comes over for a “pediatric injury.” Injured children make EMS workers fly.

On the way, I think about the recent cases of abused children killed by their mothers’ boyfriends, shuddering at the thought of what the EMTs encountered when they went into those apartments.

We get to the Vanderveer Houses, a huge project made up of identical ugly brick buildings. We locate the right one and find a man waiting at the downstairs door.

“What’s the emergency?” Bronson asks.

“The baby,” the man says, blasé.

We rush to the elevator. “You coming with us?” Bronson asks.

“F—- no. My lady’s up there.”

We get to 3F and knock. An overweight woman opens the door. She’s unkempt and her sweatpants are dirty. The tiny infant she’s holding is wrapped in a swaddle that’s also badly soiled.

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Eight days,” she says.

I step inside and take a closer look at the baby’s face. He’s peaceful, a sleep-smile gracing his perfect lips.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“The doc said he has jaundice, and I should get to a hospital.”

Bronson and I look at each other. Jaundice is a common condition in infants born in wintertime, definitely not an emergency. I take the baby, lay him on the filthy couch, unwrap him, and do a quick physical assessment. “Was he premature?”

“Three weeks.”

“Are you breast-feeding?”

She shakes her head. “Formula.” She lights a cigarette.

The baby is a little skinny, but otherwise appears healthy except for a yellowish tinge to his skin. “Ma’am,” I ask, “can you please call your pediatrician?”

She does, and as she dials, I notice old track marks on her arms.

She hands me the phone. “The mother called 911,” I say. “Is it your opinion that this is an emergency?”

The doctor seems baffled. “Why, no,” he says. “I simply told her to get the baby to a pediatric ward so he can be put under the lights.” He means the light therapy hospitals use for jaundiced babies. It’s routine.

“Thank you,” I say. I turn to the woman. “Ma’am, why did you call 911 if it’s not an emergency?”

She looks me squarely in the eye and blows smoke in the other direction. “Because I didn’t wanna spend money on a cab.”

This burns me up. Ambulances are tiny ER rooms on wheels. Every ambulance run costs $400.

I ask the woman if she has insurance, and she hands me her Medicaid card. Even if she didn’t have insurance, we would be obligated to take her. The city — that is, the taxpayers — would again eat the cost. It is a sign of a humane society that those without insurance are not denied emergency medical transport and care. But it’s a sign of a system being abused when someone who does not need emergency transport demands it because it’s free.

Once the 911 system is activated, we do not have the authority to call off a job if the person insists on being taken to a hospital, even if we see no signs of illness or injury. If we really feel there is absolutely nothing wrong with the person and that they do not in any way, shape, or form need a hospital, we are required to call for a lieutenant. It’s such a long, drawn-out procedure that usually it’s easier just to transport the person and free up our unit for a real emergency.

I look at the baby, imagining his future. “Was that the baby’s father downstairs?”

Bronson shoots me a look that says I should not be asking this question.

The woman rolls the ember off her cigarette and places the unsmoked half back into the pack. “No.”

Bronson signals for me to cut it out. I ignore him.

“Does he live here?” I ask.

The woman puts on her coat, locates her house keys. “Sometimes.”

I breathe slowly and try not to fume. Why do these breathing techniques never work? Then I think, “At least the baby isn’t abused.” Not now, anyway. But what if the mother starts using drugs again? What if the boyfriend decides to take his anger out on that little baby boy?

Bronson is giving me a look colder than hell.

He’s right. I close my eyes, wishing the scenery would change. I open them, realizing it never will, and look at the baby. “Does he have a clean swaddle?” I ask.

She goes into the bedroom, comes back, and tosses me a flannel receiving blanket that is not clean. I rewrap the baby in it, swaddling him tightly. It’s cold outside.

I take one last deep breath. “Which hospital, then?” I ask the mother.

She brushes me aside.”Whichever.”

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.