The Fugitive  A young man is running away from police officers. Others may be running away. He runs through a yard, over a tall wooden fence, through the back yard, over bushes, and through more yards. Television news crews are covering the story. There is as much speculation that he is innocent as guilty. There are interviews with the running man's friends. One of his friends, a tall man with medium length dark brown hair, questions the man's innocence. The interviewer is a scrubbed clean upper middle class frat-boy-esque man. There is a remake of the scene. The fugitive may have hurt his back flipping over the fence. He may have a broken leg; police don't know. The fugitive could have gone between sparse hedges rather than jumping over them. I see the path he ran. I may be him. He outruns the others. Police may have calculated the man's running speed, in centimeters per second, from the remake of the scene. From this they can project how far he could be. The man is a fugitive! He runs through yards and streets. People chase him, and fall behind as he outruns them. He runs on a street. I see through his eyes. I may be he. There is a wooded area to my left. People come out of the area and point in the opposite direction, indicating the police have infiltrated the wooded area already looking for him, and that he would find no safety in the woods. Some people shake scolding fingers at the man. He (I) questions whether to keep running. It seems futile: the police are everywhere. I wonder if I should hide in a tree in the woods. The police dogs will small me and go nuts, but it may work.