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Windows were always lined with salt. Sometimes cowrie shells, but always salt. Never opened, for fear that rain or wind would break the salt line.
Sam was running to be able to open the damn window.
Well, that and every other thing he wasn't allowed to do with Dad around. Anything risky that wasn't hunting. Anything that involved people Dad hadn't vetted first, again unless it was for a hunt, and sometimes not then. Anything perfectly safe that looked risky to Dad. Sam just wanted to go out to a movie once in a while and come home to the same place every day. And Sam was running for all the things Sam had to do because Dad was around. Hunting, physical training, following orders. Sam never wanted to fire another gun or run another ten-mile stretch in his life.
Stanford was different. No one to give orders meant no one to make sure Sam knew what to do. Coming home to the same place every day meant having to clean the room himself instead of leaving it to the motel employees; even when they'd rented apartments, having only enough stuff to fit into the Impala meant the place never really got messy. Going to a movie meant having honestly-acquired money, and having honestly-acquired money meant having a job, which meant somebody else barking orders at him. Go figure. Swearing off guns meant getting odd looks when he defended a pro-gun stance, but Sam wasn't about to support any law that would make his family's life harder than they'd chosen. Sam took up running again after the first month, because he could feel his muscles deteriorating, and again, Sam wasn't that stupid.
Sam didn't salt the windows or doors, though. And he opened the windows whenever it was warm outside. Leaving aside the issues of freedom and rebellion inherent therein, he would have gotten odd looks from Brady had he done anything different.