No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

He wasn’t sure.
Please?
Finally he gave in and raced back up the rotten steps, ran
back to his uncle’s rancher, and filled a blue glass in the
kitchen sink. The tap water tasted like iron out here. When he
came back outside, Uncle Kenny was standing by the open
cellar door, his hands braced on his flabby hips.
Little Ashley froze, spilling some water.
But Uncle Kenny wasn’t angry. No, he was never angry.
He’d been all jolly smiles, showing yellow horse teeth,
plucking the glass from Ashley’s petrified little fingers:
Thanks, kiddo. It’s alright, I’ll take this down to her. Hey, why
don’t you go walk your baby brother down to the gas station
and grab yourselves two chicken flautas, on the house?
The flautas had been dry as sandpaper, withered by the
heat lamp. Lars didn’t mind, but Ashley couldn’t finish his.
That same year, a month or two later, Ashley had returned
to Uncle Kenny’s a second time for Memorial Day weekend,
and he remembered finding that same cellar door propped
wide open, with a rattling fan blowing air out. When he
descended the steps this time he found the lights on, revealing
a bare, gutted bunker, the concrete walls damp with
condensation. Scrub marks on the floor. The acrid odor of
bleach. The woman was gone.
Long gone.
Even at that age, Ashley had known he should confront
his uncle about this, or better yet, tell his parents and let them
call the police. And he’d come very close, sitting on that
knowledge all weekend like a loaded gun. But that Saturday
night, Fat Kenny made macaroni and cheese with jalapenos
and whole slices of bacon in it, and told a joke so epically
funny it made Ashley spray a half-chewed mouthful.
Hey, Ashley. How can you tell a nigger has been on your
computer?