My partner, Bronson, and I get a call for an “injury” on Beverley Road and Rogers Avenue in Brooklyn. En route, we hear central dispatch another “injury” to a nearby unit, at an actual address farther down Beverly Road.

“That’s our job,” Bronson says, picking up the radio. “Let’s cancel them.”

“Whoa there, tiger,” I say, grabbing the mike. “Let’s scope it out first.” Coincidences have happened, such as the time there were two heart attacks on opposite street corners. One unit was canceled, and the other had to handle two cardiac patients.

Bronson looks at me. “How much you wanna bet it’s a duplicate?” So far, Bronson owes me half the shares in Microsoft and 20 of the 48 contiguous states. “Double or nothing,” I say. He considers it. “Too high, my dear. Too high.”

I go easy on him. “Lunch,” I say.

“Deal.”

We turn onto Beverley Road and see a fire truck half a block down. Nothing past that.

“There’s only one job,” I say.

Bronson buffs his fingernails on his shirt. “Since you’re treating, I’ll have the filet mignon.”

“Hold your horses,” I say, and crane my neck to see down the depressing block. It’s garbage day, a rat scurrying around. “All right, all right,” I concede. “Cancel the other unit.” Bronson radios dispatch, and we take the job over from the firemen, who eagerly want to get back to their firehouse and resume cleaning their rig or whatever it was they were doing.

“Playing cards,” Bronson says.

“Making spaghetti,” I say.

“Sleeping.”

“Why the hell are we part of the FDNY anyway?” I ask. “We should be with PD.” Most EMS workers feel this way about the 1996 merger of the EMS and the FDNY. On any given scene, we relate more to the police officers than the firemen.

“Keep your shirt on,” Bronson says, getting the equipment out of the ambulance. Ordinarily, he’d mouth off, too. He’s definitely a changed man since falling in love with Rachel, the triage nurse at Maimonides. I shake my head. “Bronson, I hardly know ye.”

Our patient is sitting on the front stoop of a dilapidated brownstone, her ankle swollen. She says her name is Celine. In this ungentrified section of brownstone Brooklyn, many people speak only Creole.

“Bonjour,” Bronson says.

I get a teenage girl to interpret. Apparently, the woman was walking down her stoop when she tripped and fell on the last step. Her foot is floppy and she cries in pain. I fashion a pillow splint to stabilize the extremity, wrap her ankle with gauze, and help her into the stair-chair. Then we lift her into the ambulance.

A man coming out of the building carrying a sleeping baby yells to the teenager in Creole. The girl tells us, “Just a minute,” and speaks with him.

“He coming with us?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “He just needs to find a babysitter and he’ll meet us at the hospital.”

“Then let’s go,” Bronson says, gets behind the wheel, and puts the bus in drive. He’s eager to get to Maimonides.

“It’s a good thing the baby wasn’t hurt,” the teenage girl says.

“Hold it!” I shout to Bronson, and he hits the brake. The girl explains that the woman was carrying the baby when she tripped. Which means the baby fell from a height of about 4 feet and hit stone steps. That’s why two calls came for this location. People probably whipped out their cell phones and dialed 911. We could use another unit here, but it’s too late to request one now.

I open the baby’s eyelids with my thumb. Her pupils look good. She’s breathing well and has a good pulse and good color. No vomiting, and no fluid leaking from her ears. But she’s asleep.

“Shake her,” the girl says, and jiggles the baby’s foot.

“No!” I shout. This can cause further spine or head damage. “Was she crying right away?” I ask. The girl asks the man, but he answers me directly: “Oui.”

That’s a good sign. Crying babies are better than silent ones. But now she’s asleep, which could mean blood collecting under her skull, causing pressure on her brain. I board and collar her, applying an infant cervical collar. It’s tiny, and I think that such things should never have to be made.

As I tighten the Velcro straps, the baby suddenly cries, her face turning red and squinchy. “Keep crying, baby,” I encourage her. “Stay awake.” I pad her with blankets to secure her, then wrap the straps in a zigzag pattern across her tiny body and tighten them so she cannot move. Bronson reroutes us to Kings County pediatric trauma. I make the woman hobble over to the bench seat and fasten the boarded baby onto the stretcher. And we’re off.

The woman, disturbed at seeing her baby like that, begins speaking agitatedly to me in Creole, but I’m too busy with my unexpected patient to answer her.

“Stay awake,” I whisper in the baby’s ear. “Just stay awake.”

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.