Opening Narration quotes from The Fugitive

Reno. The biggest little city in the world. A town for all seasons. A town for all tastes. Dude ranch, diivorce or dice, take your pick. For every purse, for every age, Reno has something for everyone. For Richard Kimble, fugitive, another name, another job.

Chicago. Richard Kimble has come a thousand miles on hope and the slimmest of clues in his hunt for the one-armed man. But ten days have passed, and now hope has turned to despair. For in a city of millions, how does a fugitive go about finding a phantom?

("No more running today, huh?" says Richard Kimble to the dog.) For you either, if your name is Kimble. No more running today, or perhaps tomorrow or maybe a few weeks, with luck. You've found yourself a place to rest. Another name, another job. Your name, Dick Lindsay. Your job, handyman at the Bodin Russet Kennels.

Countless weeks and months of running. Endless running, endless searching for the man with one arm, pausing only for a job like this to stay alive. Richard Kimble, fugitive. Dan Crowley, clerk.

A miracle is defined as an effect in the physical world which surpasses all known human powers. For Richard Kimble, however, this has become a world of stark realities. A world where life is lived in inches, each one possibly the last.

Richard Kimble, alias Nick Walker, had called it, "a car looking for a quiet place to die." But this ancient vehicle, held together by faith and rusty wire, has come halfway across the mountains, carrying two fugitives: Sister Veronica, a fugitive from God on her way to Sacramento to renounce her vows; and Richard Kimble, fugitive from injustice, now wearing the name Nick Walker, borrowed from a wallet which he had found in Lincoln City. Two fugitives, moving through a dragnet that straddles two states. One, unaware that the other is the object of the intensive manhunt.

Richard Kimble's hands once eased the pain, ministered the illness, even saved the lives of countless children. Now, the hands are as fugitive as the man to whom they belong.

These have been depserate months for Richard Kimble. Running in fear. Someday, somewhere, someone will recognize him. Who? When? That's what he lives with.

For Richard Kimble, a thousand names, a thousand jobs. Here, he is Johnny Sherman, warehouse worker, and as always for a fugitive, the load is a heavy one.

Never in one place too long. That's the first rule for a fugitive. Always keep running, always with the nightmare fear that one day, the chase will catch up with him. One day. Perhaps now.

The Pruitt family home. The Tidewater South, Georgia. In antebellum years, a home graced by gracious women, and even after cotton was no longer king, the Pruitt women were gentle and well-bred. Richard Kimble, fugitive, pauses here in his endless flight. For as long as he dares, he will be David Benton, research technician.

Webers Landing, Florida. A thousand miles from the state prison where Richard Kimble was scheduled to die. Tonight, it will seem closer.

This is the instrument, and this it's operator. The subjects, newlyweds and a day to remember, always. This is the fugitive, and as fate would have it, he is the target, and this is the sound. Like that of a trigger of a trap. This is the picture which vanity, not fate, discards. But fate is not finished with Richard Kimble. It is only a matter of time and place. This is the place, and with the common ordinary act of a man buying cigarettes, now is the time, and fate is swift and sure.

The man is Richard Kimble and, not surprisingly, the man is tired. Tired of looking over his shoulder, the ready lie, of the buses and freight trains. Richard Kimble is tired of running.

The road is endless for Richard Kimble. Endless, uncertain.