Teens

Chapter 3 Running Nowhere Fast

by Brother Carlton 
12/18/24
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The Mary Graham Hall Children’s Shelter loomed in my memory like a fortress, its brick walls stark and unyielding. To some, it was a refuge—a last hope for kids with nowhere else to go. To me, it felt like a cage, a place where freedom existed only as a dream.

The boys’ and girls’ dormitories stood across from each other, separated by 25 yards of grass that somehow made the divide feel wider. Even the air inside felt heavy, as if it carried the weight of every kid who’d ever passed through. I’d learned how to cope, how to keep my head down and my mouth shut. But sometimes, the urge to escape burned too hot to ignore.

That day, it wasn’t the shelter I escaped from—it was the suffocating monotony of school. The classroom felt like a trap, with the teacher’s voice droning on about something I’d already stopped caring about. My eyes darted to the window. Out there, the world stretched endlessly, open and inviting.

I exchanged a look with my friend. No words were needed. We had talked about running before, but this time, the look said everything: We’re doing it. Now.

The teacher turned to the chalkboard, and we made our move. My chair screeched loudly as I stood, but I didn’t care. The adrenaline drowned out any fear. We tore through the hallways, our shoes pounding against the tile floor, until we burst into the open air.

The back fence of the schoolyard stood tall and imposing, a line between captivity and freedom. My heart raced as I reached it, my fingers gripping the cold chain-link. My foot slipped once, but I caught myself and kept climbing. With a final push, I swung one leg over the top and dropped to the ground on the other side. The impact jolted my knees, but I was already moving. My friend landed beside me, and together, we ran.

The railroad tracks weren’t far, and we followed them like they were some kind of lifeline. The sun beat down on us as we walked, our shoes kicking up dust that clung to the sweat on our skin. Every so often, I glanced back, half-expecting to see someone chasing us. But there was no one.

We walked for what felt like hours, the tracks stretching endlessly through the fields. The smell of dirt and crops filled the air, the kind of smell that sticks in your nose for days. My legs ached, and my stomach growled, but we kept going. Freedom wasn’t something you stopped for.

By the time we reached Tracy, the sun was sinking low on the horizon. We weren’t alone for long. Two girls and another boy joined us, runaways like us, their faces tired but determined. There was an unspoken understanding between us. We were all trying to escape something.

We built a fire along the tracks that night. The girls were the ones who kept it alive, while the rest of us scavenged for wood. The flickering flames danced against the darkness, casting shadows that seemed almost alive. Hunger gnawed at our stomachs, and two of our group went into town to find food.

They came back with a pack of bologna and a bag of M&M’s. It wasn’t much, but we ate it like it was a five-star meal. Sitting around that fire, passing around slices of bologna and handfuls of candy, it almost felt like we’d made it. We laughed, talked, and let the night wrap around us like a warm blanket.

But when the fire died, reality came creeping back in. The ground was hard and cold, and sleep didn’t come easily. I woke up before sunrise, the soot from the fire streaked across my face and hands. The girls had had enough. They wanted to go back, to turn themselves in.

Not me. Not yet.

Me and the other boy kept going. The tracks led us to Livermore, where we found a gas station with a grimy bathroom. We washed our faces in the icy water, scrubbing until the black streaks were gone. Every so often, we’d glance over our shoulders, expecting the police to show up. But no one came.

We hitched a ride to Fremont, about 42 miles from Tracy. The car was old, and the ride was bumpy, but it felt like a rocket compared to walking. I didn’t say much during the ride, my mind too busy replaying every choice I’d made.

When we finally reached Fremont, I knew where to go. Mark Schmidt’s house was familiar ground, a place where I thought I might find some rest. When Mark opened the door, his eyes widened in surprise.

“Carlton,” he said, his voice full of questions.

“Yeah,” I replied, trying to sound casual.

“What are you doing here?” His brow furrowed as he looked me over.

I shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Just… needed a place to crash,” I mumbled.

Mark’s parents weren’t as easily swayed. They weren’t angry, just concerned. They pieced together what had happened faster than I could explain, and before I knew it, we were in their car, heading back to Mary Graham Hall.

The 60-mile drive felt longer than the journey on foot. The silence in the car was deafening, and my stomach churned with the sting of failure. When we arrived, the staff didn’t scold us or ask questions. They just poured a harsh chemical solution into our hair, a precaution against lice. The smell was awful, the liquid burning as it soaked into my scalp.

That night, lying in bed, the walls of the shelter seemed taller than ever. My legs ached, my body was exhausted, but my mind wouldn’t stop racing. I’d run miles and miles, but it still felt like I hadn’t gone anywhere.

At 13, I didn’t understand what I was really running from. Freedom, I thought, was out there somewhere, waiting for me on the other side of a fence or a highway. But what I was really searching for was something I didn’t have the words to name: a sense of belonging, of being seen.

I didn’t know it then, but no matter how far I ran, I couldn’t outrun myself.

Brother Carlton ministers the gospel to the Los Angeles area. Formerly a Hollywood actor (SAG member) and property cleanup expert, he now spends most of his time studying the scriptures, writing articles, hymns, and poems, and doing street preaching. See all his videos on YouTube Brother Carlton.