Bronson and I are sitting at our 89 (our cross-street location) on a busy day when we haven’t had much of a chance to catch our breaths.The shift has flown by and we have 45 minutes left — perfect time for a last job. A job in the last few minutes of the tour would result in overtime — something neither of us is looking for. When we get a call for an unknown condition on Fifth Avenue in Sunset Park, Bronson says, “Hope it’s a quickie.”

Driving down Fifth Avenue, I say, “Doesn’t look promising.” I can see the lights of several police cars in the distance. We arrive to find five cars from the 72nd Precinct. I ask the sergeant what’s going on and he tells us someone robbed the bank on the corner by passing a note to one of the tellers.

It sounds so 1970s-ish, so “Dog Day Afternoon.” In a modern twist, though, the teller passed the suspect a pack of bank money containing an exploding dye pack. “Cool,” I say. After the perp ran out of the bank, the sergeant continues, the pack exploded on the street. “Neato!” I say. He starts laughing. I ask if there are any patients. “No,” he says. “Except maybe the suspect, but he’s already at the station.”

“So there’s hope,” Bronson says, “that we still might get out on time.”

We enter the cordoned-off portion of sidewalk where the money pack exploded. I squat down to inspect the red dye on the ground. “Cops have a cool job,” I tell Bronson.

The sergeant tells me the explosion does a number of things: It makes the money unusable (i.e., traceable), stains the perp’s hands and clothing, and hopefully disorients the robber. It isn’t supposed to harm anyone, so I hope the perp won’t try to claim injury. But you never know. Not getting away with the bank heist, he might try to sue the bank because of injury sustained when the loot exploded.

“Some lawyer from the ACLU will probably jump to defend him,” Bronson mutters.

We turn to go back to the bus when a bystander tells us that there’s someone

having difficulty breathing in the nearby florist’s shop. “Let the lawsuits begin,” Bronson says. We go inside and find a 54-year-old male who claims he was standing near the bank robber when the pack went off. Outside the florist’s, five more people claim various symptoms, including difficulty breathing, burning eyes and noses, and headaches.

“Great,” he says, “an MCI.” This is not a genuine mass casualty incident, because we know exploding money causes no harm, but rather a small contingent of people with dollar signs in their eyes. Still, it needs to be checked out.

I sigh and radio the FDNY dispatcher for additional units, including a conditions lieutenant and a HazTac unit, which can decontaminate people exposed to hazardous materials. We start triaging and treating patients, taking vital signs, doing paperwork. The lieutenant arrives and so does the HazTac unit. They set up a decontamination shower.

“But there’s no real harm,” I say. “It’s hysteria.” The HazTac unit explains that even though it’s probably hysteria, people are complaining of symptoms, so in order to avoid lawsuits they are going to overtreat rather than undertreat.

The lieutenant tells us we don’t have to treat any more patients, that the HazTac unit will take care of them.

Bronson claps his hands. “Looks like we might get off on time after all.”

Then comes the lieutenant’s punchline: The two of us are considered contaminated. “You’ll have to get undressed and get in the shower too.”

Bronson and I freeze.

“Now,” the lieutenant says.

“But we’re not complaining of symptoms!” Bronson protests.

“Doesn’t matter. You touched them, you need to be de-conned.”

“Great last job,”Bronson whispers to me, as we step into the changing area.

I unclip my utility belt and unbutton my shirt. “Could be worse.”

He stands there, skinny and knobbykneed in his boxer shorts and black work socks, and looks at me like I’m crazy. “How?”

I look him up and down, all elbows and ribcage, and shrug. “You’re right,” I agree. “It can’t get any worse.”

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.