The call comes in for an “intox” at a lighting store in Sunset Park. According to the information on the computer screen mounted between our seats, the patient may be depressed.

“Great,” I say. “Another EDP.” We’ve already had two today. Although I’ve been trying to see the humor in people’s psychological problems, I just can’t.

We pull up to the scene, and Bronson says he’s been in this lighting store before, looking for lamps for his apartment. “They’re very pricey,” he says.

We see a car from the 72nd precinct, and go inside. A store employee comes out from the back and tells us to follow him. We do, and see a man, apparently unconscious, slumped in a chair outside the bathroom with a male and a female cop standing on each side of him. The female cop tells us the man’s co-worker found him inside the bathroom on the floor. “He passed out,” she says.

“Freddie’s been depressed, drinking heavily,” the co-worker says. “Yesterday he asked me to go get him crack and a prostitute. Like, where would I find that?”

I think: Sunset Park? Anywhere.

I smile politely and say: “Go on.”

The female cop hands me two small glass vials containing a liquid with labels identifying them as “poppers.” They’re amyl nitrate, a substance sometimes inhaled during sex to dilate the blood vessels, bringing more oxygen-rich blood to the brain and causing a quick high. The drug is most commonly found in the gay community.

Bronson tries to rouse the patient by tapping him on the forehead and calling his name. No response. He opens the guy’s shirt and does a brisk sternal rub, digging his knuckles into the man’s breastbone. The patient comes to. I lean in, then back off. The guy is so drunk, the fumes are evaporating off of him. “Sir,” I say. “What happened?”

“What happened?” he mumbles.

“Your friend here found you unconscious on the bathroom floor,” Bronson says.

“I’m fine,” the man says, and tries to stand, unsuccessfully.

“How much you been drinking?” I ask.

“Haven’t been drinking.”

I sigh. “We’re going to bring you to the hospital to speak to a doctor,” I say. He refuses. I hate trying to reason with drunks.

“We can do this two ways: the easy way or the hard way,” the male cop says.

“Which is which?” the guy says.

“You can walk out of here like a man and go to the hospital, or you can go out in handcuffs,” the cop says.

The man tells him to go to hell. “Fine,” the cop says, and starts wrestling with him, attempting to place handcuffs. Drunks are really good fighters, so Bronson jumps in and pins the guy’s hands behind his back. The three of them knock over some expensive-looking lamps, and after a brief but violent struggle they get the guy handcuffed. I get the stretcher and together we load the patient onto it. His hands are cuffed behind his back, so we lie him on his side. The cop comes along for the ride, chewing furiously on a stick of gum and glaring at the patient.

“Didn’t know I could rumble, didja?” Bronson shouts from the front of the vehicle.

“Yeah, sure,” I shout back. “All you did was end up on the bottom of the pile.”

I lean over the patient. “I’m surprised you couldn’t tackle him,” I say, “98-pound weakling that he is.” He doesn’t respond. “Look,” I say. “You were unconscious. I don’t know what’s bothering you, but drinking and doing poppers isn’t the answer.” I think about it. “Especially not in a lighting store.”

“Is there a better place?”

Someplace private, where we won’t find you, I want to say. Instead, I say, “You’re going to Lutheran for a psych evaluation. I hope you’ll make good use of the doctors there. You need to talk your problems out.” I don’t really believe in the talking cure, but what else can I tell him? That he’s a lost soul? That I think there’s no hope?

As we leave Lutheran after dropping him off, I ask Bronson: “Why do I do this job if I think there’s no hope?”

He climbs behind the driver’s seat and, without missing a beat, says, “Because you adore me.”

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.