Southampton Spectacular by M. C. Soutter

reluctantly reached out to take the manila package. The lawyer turned back to the bedside table and closed his briefcase with a snap. He stood before them, bowed stiffly, and then turned and left the room without another word.
    Cynthia began flapping the manila envelope like a paper fan, as though reassuring herself with it’s flimsiness. “There can’t be much inside,” she said, more to herself than to Devon. Then she looked once at Peter. “What’s this, now?” she said gruffly. Devon could see sweat running down the side of her mother’s face. She wanted to take her by the shoulders, wanted to tell her that they could open the large envelope together, later, when her mother had had a chance to rest. Or they could simply wait for her father to wake up – which he would – so that they wouldn’t have to open this envelope at all.
    But Cynthia Hall had made her choice.
    She opened the little metal clasp at the top of the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper inside. Devon could see handwriting there, in something that looked like her father’s graceful script.
    Cynthia read the message to herself, her lips moving silently. She nodded, and read the message again.
    And then her eyes rolled back into her head, and she slumped out of her chair and onto the floor.
    “ Mom! ”
    Devon sprang from her chair and bent over her mother. She grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed, as though Cynthia might start to disintegrate if she were not properly held. She was sure there was something she was supposed to be doing at this moment – CPR? Put a spoon in her mouth? – but Devon’s basic logic circuits seemed to be misfiring. She hoped her mother was still breathing, and that her heart was still beating. And then she realized, after what seemed an eternity of deep thought, that she could check these vital signs perfectly well on her own. She leaned forward and put two fingers on her mother’s neck. Then she bent her ear to her mother’s mouth, and listened.
    Heart beating, yes. And breathing, yes.
    Devon took a breath, and realized as she did so that she herself had not been breathing. Her head cleared instantly, and she looked around the hospital room. There was a red button just above her father’s bed. Devon released her mother’s shoulders, leapt across the room, and slammed her fist into the button. It lit up and made a satisfyingly urgent buzzing noise, though Devon would have been happy with something twice as loud.
    “We need help in here!” she yelled.
    Then, without warning, there was another voice in the room. A low, hesitant voice. “Does everything have to be quite so noisy?” Peter Hall asked.
    Devon spun to face her father, not daring to believe she had just heard him speak. “Dad?”
    He tried turning toward her, but then his eyes opened very, very wide, and he let out a single, muted note of surprise and pain. “Goodness,” he said, returning his head to its original position. He blinked several times, like someone who has been caught in the beam of a bright light. “Apparently, rule number one around here is that I should not move my head.” he said. “I assume I was in an accident of some kind. Is everybody else okay?”
    Devon stared at him wordlessly as the panic button above her father’s head continued to flash and wail. She looked down at her mother, who was still unconscious beside the bed. Peter followed his daughter’s gaze – without moving his head this time – and saw Cynthia there.
    “What happened to your mother?”
    At that moment a doctor rushed in, summoned by the red button, and he walked quickly to Peter’s bed, assessing the situation with his sharp eyes.
    “Not him,” Devon said. She beckoned to the man, bringing him to the other side of the bed. She pointed at the floor, at her mother. “Her. I think she fainted, but I don’t know. She’s been under a lot of stress.”
    The doctor nodded, and he knelt down by Devon’s mother. He checked her