Gus was a cheerful pink convertible with a very important job. Every evening, he delivered messages across town — not in a bag, not in a box, but tucked inside enormous soap bubbles that floated through the air like shimmering, wobbly moons. *Whoooosh, pop, whoooosh* — that was the sound of Gus at work.
Here is how it worked. When Gus drove fast with his top snapped down, the wind rushing through him built up inside — and out from his front grille came the biggest, most beautiful bubbles you ever saw. Each one glimmered pink and green and gold in the lamplight, wobbling gently as it rose.
Tonight, Gus had one urgent delivery. A birthday invitation for his friend Dot, who lived on the other side of Puddle Street. The party was tomorrow morning. Gus could smell the damp evening air and the faint scent of ink on the little rolled-up note he carried. He had to hurry.
*Whoooosh, pop, whoooosh.* Gus hummed down Bramble Lane, past the bakery with its dark windows, past the post box painted pillar-box red. A bubble drifted behind him like a small planet. He turned onto Puddle Street — and stopped so suddenly his tyres squeaked on the wet pavement.
The road was completely blocked. A delivery lorry had turned too sharply, and an enormous stack of cardboard boxes had tumbled right across the street — pavement to pavement, taller than a lamppost, wider than Gus could go around. He craned forward. He could not see over. He could not squeeze past.
Gus reversed a little and looked at the boxes. He looked at his invitation. He looked at his grille. He revved his engine once — *brum* — thinking. Then his headlights clicked on bright, and he had his answer.
He couldn't move the boxes. But he could blow a bubble big enough to carry the invitation right over them. Gus reversed further down the street to give himself a proper run. He took a long breath of cold night air through his grille. Then he drove — faster and faster — top snapping down with a sharp *clack* — and blew.
The bubble that came out was enormous. It stretched wide as a garden shed, trembling and iridescent, catching the yellow glow of the street lamp. Inside it, the invitation sat perfectly still, curled like a tiny scroll. The bubble rose — slowly, slowly — above the towering wall of cardboard boxes.
But something else rose with it. Perched on top of the highest box was a small snail named Peck, who had been trying to cross Puddle Street all evening and had climbed the box pile in desperation. The bubble scooped gently under her. Peck's eyes went very wide. Up she went.
*Whoooosh.* The bubble sailed over the boxes in the cool dark air. Peck gripped the curved surface with all four of her tiny feet. The town spread out below her, lit up like a scattered handful of buttons. She had never been this high in her entire life.
The bubble settled softly on the far side of the boxes — *pop* — and Peck slid onto the pavement with a quiet blink. The invitation landed neatly on Dot's doorstep. The door opened. Dot looked down at the invitation, then at the snail. The snail looked back. "Hello," said Dot. "Would you like to come to a party?"
Gus turned for home, engine humming low and satisfied. *Brum. Brum. Brum.* He rolled slowly back into his garage, and his convertible top folded closed with a soft *click-click-click*, the way you might pull a blanket up to your chin. His engine ticked quietly as it cooled.
One last small bubble drifted up from his grille, pale and wobbling, and floated toward the garage ceiling — where it hovered for a moment, shimmering — and then, very gently, *pop*.
