The trio and Smudge stood looking at the main mailbox.

Actually, calling it a mailbox was misleading. It was more of a mail mountain.

Letters spilled from the top. Catalogues hung from the sides. Several magazines had escaped entirely and were lying on the floor. A bunch of newspapers appeared to be starting their own breakaway pile, which did not seem healthy. The mailbox groaned slightly under the weight of its own contents.

Lyra looked down at the inventory sheet.

“Mail,” she read. “Do important stuff.” She lowered the sheet and looked back at the mail mountain. “Oh boy.”

A catalogue slid off the side of the pile and flopped onto the floor. Zia caught it with her foot before it escaped under a shelf.

“The mail is making a break for it,” she said.

Orin picked it up. “It says Five Hundred Excellent Buckets.”

Zia frowned. “That doesn’t sound important.”

“It might be,” said Smudge.

Lyra looked at the mail mountain again. There were letters, catalogues, newspapers, leaflets, booklets, forms, envelopes, and one small packet so badly squashed it also looked like a letter.

“How do we know what’s important?” she asked.

They all looked at Smudge.

Smudge looked blank and shrugged. “Important mail is mail that feels good when you hold it,” he said.

Orin went very still. “That is not a system, Smudge.”

“It is a little bit,” said Smudge.

Orin decided no response was the best one.

The next thing they found was a magazine called Advanced Napping Monthly. Smudge quietly tried to take it.

Lyra pulled it back. “Smudge.”

“What?”

Lyra placed it to one side. “Later pile.”

Orin immediately straightened the later pile so its edges lined up. Zia dropped The Very Serious Sock Report on top of it.

Smudge stared at the pile longingly.

Then came the Emergency Biscuit Catalogue.

“Now pile,” said Smudge immediately.

“No,” said Orin. “Later pile.”

“Snacks can be emergencies.”

“Later pile.”

Smudge sighed.

After that came The Journal of Spoon Appreciation, which Smudge claimed was more serious than it looked. Nobody believed him.

Then Zia found a plain brown envelope with a warehouse stamp on the front. It didn’t have bright colours, funny pictures, shiny letters, or the word biscuit anywhere on it.

“This one looks serious,” said Zia.

Orin took it carefully. “Very serious.”

Lyra pointed to the smaller pile they had started beside the later pile. “Now pile.”

On it went and the sorting continued.

Bright things went into the later pile. Funny-looking things went into the later pile. Snack-related things went into the later pile, despite Smudge’s objections. Anything official went into the now pile. Anything with a warehouse stamp went into the now pile. Anything in a plain brown envelope went into the now pile. Anything that looked serious, cross, urgent, or as if it might become angry if ignored also went into the now pile.

After what felt like never-ending sorting, the mail mountain had become two smaller mountains. One was large, colourful, and rather fun-looking. The other was small, brown, serious, and not especially cheerful.

“There,” said Lyra. “Later pile and now pile.”

Smudge looked at the later pile. “The later pile looks fun.”

“That’s why it’s later,” said Zia.

Orin picked up the now pile. “So now we read these?”

“Carefully,” said Lyra.

And so they began with the first envelope.

WAREHOUSE NOTICE: PLEASE RETURN BORROWED LADDER

“Important?” asked Orin.

“Yes,” said Zia. “But not urgent.”

Lyra wrote on the inventory sheet:

Return borrowed ladder — normal priority.

The next notice was printed in large, serious letters.

WAREHOUSE NOTICE: “PROBABLY SOMETHING GOOD” IS NOT AN INVENTORY ITEM

Everyone looked at Smudge.

Smudge pretended not to notice everyone looking at Smudge.

“That feels important,” said Lyra.

“More important than the ladder?” asked Orin.

“Hard to say,” said Zia. “Maybe the same?”

Lyra looked at the inventory sheet. So far, it had one normal priority and one task that felt important, but nobody could quite explain how important. More, less, or the same?

“We need a way to sort the now pile,” she said.

At this very moment, Smudge rather conveniently found an extra-important-looking letter—plain, brown, serious—and handed it over to Orin.

“Ah,” said Orin. “Look at this.”

He unfolded it with the careful expression of someone opening a treasure map, except the treasure was a list. To Orin, these were much the same thing. He loved a good list.

The title read:

OFFICIAL PRIORITY LIST

Lyra peered over his shoulder. “It tells us how to sort all the others,” she said.

Zia nodded. “Then that must be the most important one.”

“Nothing has more priority than priority,” said Smudge wisely.

“Okay,” said Orin. “Priority number one: the priority list.”

He created a special pile of one for the Official Priority List and moved on to the next letter.

SAFETY WARNING: DO NOT STACK BOXES ABOVE THE WOBBLE LINE

“What’s the wobble line?” asked Zia.

Smudge pointed to a red line painted across the warehouse wall. He pretended to be a little box and did a small wobble demonstration, just to be clear. “No boxes above the wobble line!”

Lyra checked the priority list. “Safety warnings before warehouse notices.”

“Makes sense,” said Zia. “Falling boxes before borrowed ladders.”

“And before the ‘Probably’ notice,” said Orin.

“Correct,” confirmed Lyra.

And so it went. Each item in the now pile was checked against the Official Priority List and arranged properly. Safety warnings went first. Things that might cause problems went next. Things that mattered, but could wait a little, came after that.

At last, they had a neat pile of ordered important things. Not a mountain. Not a mess. A neat, organised pile.

“There,” said Lyra. “Now we know what matters most.”

“And what matters next,” said Zia.

“And what can wait,” said Orin.

With everything organised, prioritised, and optimised, all that was left to do was the highest priority item.

At the top of the list, strangely, in crayon and slightly wobbly handwriting was the most important job:

READ FUN PILE IMMEDIATELY

Lyra slowly looked at Smudge.

“Smudge,” she said. “Did you add this to the priority list?”

Smudge reached into his pocket, pulled out his official warehouse stamp, and stamped it.

“Yes,” he said. “Approved!”