“It’s not scary.  It’s like…” he pauses and thinks a moment.  “…it’s like the rain is actually watering their dreams. Each raindrop that falls, makes them realise there’s something much bigger than all that stuff they sit around worrying about all day.”

“Sometimes I get a little worried that I’m going to forget how to tie my shoe.” Isaboe chips in.

“But you don’t, do you?”

“Nope, never.”  “So, then what happens?” Isaboe questions.

“The clouds clear, the sun comes out and the shells are left behind – not needed anymore”.

Jones looks straight into Isaboe’s inquisitive eyes – “Well, you don’t think they can do all that with a heavy load on their backs do you?  They gotta come out of their shells.  With those words, Jones ventures out a little further onto Isaboe’s little hand.

“Do what exactly? What is it they can’t do in their shell?”  She peers very close to Jones, intrigued by the thought of living in such a tiny little house.

“It could be anything.  My uncle Benny set off to climb Mt. Snailimanjaro.  My big sister Sadie became an artist – made quite an impression; her best friend Jemima skied the world famous Hannenclam, the slipperiest slope in the mollusc range.  I once heard about a snail, from the other side of the hill who dreamed of bringing the secret to snails who lived in places where dreaming was not allowed – if you can believe that!”

“Not allowed!”  “Everyone should be allowed to dream!”  Isaboe stops to think for a moment.  “But won’t they get hurt without their strong shells to protect them? She asks.

“That’s the thing.  When they have a dream living inside of them – what’s on the outside just isn’t important.”

“Just think,” she says, “of all the dreams it took to fill this bag!”

“But, why are YOU still hiding in your shell?”

“ME? I’m not hiding!”

“Looks like it to me.  Don’t you listen to the rain?”

“I hear it but, I don’t know what it’s saying to me.  Maybe I just don’t have a dream.  So I  just stay here in my shell.”

“That’s just silly.  Everyone has a dream – I bet even those who aren’t allowed to dream.  What were you thinking about before I came along?”

Well that was an easy question for Jones.

“I was just thinking that I like my pretty shell more than anything in the world, and…”

“And what?”  Isaboe prods.

Jones summons up his courage and continues,  “…that I’d like to make a new friend.”

Jones feels the tap, tap, tap of the rain, not on his shell but in his heart.  And, just then, for a time in the wood with Isaboe, and the big, purpley, flowery bag of dreams, the world became a much bigger place than either had ever imagined.