Bronson and I are enjoying the sunshine at our 10–89, the cross-street location where we’re supposed to be if we’re not on a job.

The radio is mercifully quiet, I’ve got my feet up on the dashboard, and he’s got his face turned toward the sun. But he’s so pale that sunbathing is a mistake. “You need sunblock,” I say.

He smiles but doesn’t open his eyes. “Remember when it used to be suntan lotion? And Coppertone had the baby with the dog pulling off her bathing suit?”

It’s warm, and though it’s breezy in the cab, the box must be getting hot. I start the engine and flip on the air-conditioner. We shouldn’t be sitting with the engine off at all — in an emergency, it would look really bad if the vehicle designated to respond didn’t start up, and these old trucks sometimes don’t. Also, in summer, we stay running for the air conditioning, and in winter for the heat. The box has to be ready to receive a sick patient. But I wasn’t in the mood to hear complaints about diesel exhaust and the planet. Someone’s been making anonymous complaints to the FDNY EMS and our garage about the noise and pollution from our ambulance. Since EMS tries to please these concerned citizens, we’re sitting two blocks away from our CSL, beside an empty patch of asphalt, where we’re less likely to disturb people’s finer sensibilities. The radio squawks, and we receive a call about an injury two blocks from where we’re sitting, at our exact CSL. The KDT indicates a 45-year-old man fell and cut his head. It takes us less than a minute to get there.

We enter the house, which is neat and spare, and are met by a pleasant woman who tells us that her husband felt dizzy and fell in the bedroom. As she leads us to the back room, she tells us that his only past medical history is diabetes, but she checked his sugar after he fell and it was only 150 — not great, but nothing to worry about.

We enter the bedroom and see the man sitting on the bed, a nice laceration on the side of his head and blood smeared down the side of his face. “What happened?” I ask, gloving up.

He smiles sheepishly and gestures to the bedside table. “I felt a little dizzy, and when I fell I hit my head on this.”

Bronson takes his vitals as I open my bag and bring out gauze and bandages. I clean him and wrap him up, and Bronson says his blood pressure and pulse are fine. “Why were you dizzy?” he asks.

The man looks chagrined. “I didn’t eat breakfast,” he says, then pats his belly. “Dieting.”

His wife presses her lips together. “Dieting! Like a teenager!”

“Diabetics shouldn’t diet,” I tell him. “You should eat sensibly and always keep some amount of food in your system, to keep your blood sugar on an even keel.”

The wife gestures to me as if she feels vindicated. “Maybe you’ll listen to her,” she says. “He certainly doesn’t if it’s coming from me. No, not his wife. I guess I don’t matter.”

I try to calm her. “Husbands are known for never taking advice from their wives.”

Bronson says, “You should listen to your wife.”

It’s sad. She cares about him, and she’s at sixes and sevens over this. I sigh and fill out the paperwork: no loss of consciousness, he’s alert and oriented times three, so no medics are necessary. He refuses the backboard and cervical collar.

He’s nice to us and makes small talk as his wife gathers together a bag for a visit to the emergency room. “Bring reading material,” I suggest, and she brings an issue of National Geographic for her husband and a People magazine for herself.

We’re wheeling him out to the ambulance on the stair chair when he laughs and remarks at how fast the ambulance was. I tell him we sit a couple of blocks away. “Actually,” I say, “we’re supposed to sit right at this corner, but sometimes we park two blocks over.” I wasn’t going to get into the details.

But he laughs again, and tells us he knows. “I’m the person who always calls about the fumes,” he says.

All I can think of is the queen, stone-faced: We Are Not Amused. Bronson’s jaw muscle starts working and a little blue vein in his temple pops out. “Bet you’re glad the ambulance is so close now,” he says. But I’m going to have fun with this. It’s a 10-minute drive to the hospital, so I’ve got 10 minutes to torture this guy. I make a mental list and toss Bronson the keys. “You drive,” I say. “I’ll do patient care.”

I usher the man into the box and start with, “See? Nice and cool.” I flip off the air-conditioner. “We don’t need this anymore.”

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.