Kimble recovers his senses quickly enough to tell them that his name is Sam Richards. Well, at least it's not like in The Incredible Hulk when Dr. Banner's name was always "David" something. They take him to the hospital. Uh-oh, what is he going to do? How is he going to get out of this one? With great ease, apparently. What seem like mere moments later, a stitched-up and clean Kimble is walking out of the hospital with the friendly police officer at his side, offering to drop him off wherever he wants. Kimble is nervous, but there's nothing he can do, so he gets in the squad car. He fidgets as he watches the two officers page through an electronic "wanted" list until they pull over and let him out. The friendly police officer hands him a card, warns him about dizziness and nausea, and lets him go. He's home free until the cop says, "Oh, one more thing." Kimble turns around warily, poised to take flight. "Welcome to Savannah," the cop grins. Kimble goes back to the now-closed Western Union and peers in the window. He spies the empty wastebasket where the thief threw away his ripped up check. Kimble darts around the Western Union and paws through the dumpster. In the first bag of refuse he pulls out of the dumpster, he finds the thief's ripped check, complete with name, address, and telephone number. Now do you call that luck or just Divine Intervention? He tracks the guy, sniffing out his scent and treeing him in his humble and unprotected house. That is to say, he consults a map and matches up the address with the one on the check. As soon as the guy answers the door, Kimble, subtle to the end, slams him against the wall and demands his money back. The guy, who has spent all of it, whimpers that his wife is sick and pleads with Kimble not to hurt her. "Gary? Who's that?" a weak voice calls out from a room in the house. Gary, the thief, assures Kimble that they "will work it out" and goes to tend to his wife. As Gary settles his thin and wasted-looking wife into a rocking chair on the porch, Kimble makes note of the multiple bottles of medication on the top of the refrigerator. One is labeled Levodopa. "Parkinson's?" Kimble asks Gary as he comes back inside. "Yeah, how'd you know?" Gary asks. Kimble rattles off some of the other names he saw on the scrip bottles, indicating that he understands their uses. "What? You work in a pharmacy or somethin'?" Gary asks. "Something, yeah," Kimble says. "Well, maybe you know, without the medicine," Gary says, and then gazes at his wife. "…this morning it got bad, real bad. I'm workin' but it's temp, no benefits. You work and it's no Medicaid, you don't and it's no food. This morning I had nine bucks. This stuff," Gary holds up a bottle of Levodopa, "it costs you can't even believe how much." Kimble lays into him about how the money was supposed to get him a room and food. Gary apologizes and says he's never done anything like that before and calms Kimble down, saying they can work something out and suggesting that Kimble stay with them. He pleads with Kimble not to call the cops (of course Gary doesn't know how literally Kimble takes that) because he's all his wife has. Kimble unfolds a lounge chair on the porch.