I grabbed a dustpan, scooped up the goblin’s mess, and dragged him to one of the open apartment’s bathrooms. I looked him square in the eyes, pointed at the turd I was carrying, and said “Poop,” then I pointed at the toilet and said “Toilet,” before I dumped it in the bowl and flushed it down. The goblin looked at me and made that strange jutting motion with his chin that I assumed was a nod, and I hoped he understood.

I broke into the utility room the same way I had done on my own floor, and luckily there was another set of keys. I removed the “54APT” key from the ring and added it to my own. I opened another room up, smashed another alarm system, and started to search the room for anything interesting. I had just cleared the living room when I heard a pouring sound from behind me. I whirled around and saw my goblin peeing on a bookshelf.

“No!” I yelled as I ran over to the green beast. He immediately stopped and stared at me in horror. I dragged him to the bathroom in this apartment and pointed at the toilet, “Toilet,” I said firmly.

The goblin nodded, grabbed the bar of soap from the sink, and chucked it in the toilet. I looked him in the eyes, frowned, and said, “No,” in the best stern parent voice I could muster. I picked up the soap bar, put it back on the sink, and immediately ran to one of the other bathrooms to scrub my hands with non-toilet soap. I felt it was necessary to undo what he had done incorrectly, but that didn’t make it any less disgusting.

I was debating on climbing up the last six floors on the disposal stairwell side, just to finish locking it up since I was so close, but my goblin was getting even more wobbly. I guided him to the bedroom and put him on the bed. I had treated his wounds, but he needed rest to truly heal, and I was extremely worried about the infection.

He was out cold almost immediately. I once again considered locking the stairwell doors, but I remembered the panic the goblin had when it thought I was leaving before. The last thing I needed was my pet goblin panicking, running off to find me, and getting killed.

I started rummaging through one apartment after another, taking note of what was there and wondering how to get it back to my floor when I found a priceless artifact. Buried in the depths of the pantries of an apartment previously occupied by someone who was absolutely obsessed with crochet were two one-pound bags of powdered milk.

I had already found mac and cheese, but knowing it was pointless to look for milk after so much time had passed, I had simply noted their location. I raced back, and grabbed two boxes and some butter from a fridge before returning to the apartment I had left my goblin in, and got to cooking. I was going to spoil myself.

I had been rationing my mac and cheese out, knowing that I would run out of milk for it, and so now that I had a new supply, I was going to cook a double batch. It wasn’t my kitchen, but it wasn’t hard to find a pot. Soon the water was boiling. I cooked the pasta, strained it, added the dehydrated milk, water, butter, and the cheese packet, and stirred the delicious golden-yellow ambrosia.

I heard grumbling from the bedroom. My goblin friend had been roused from his nap by the smell. He wandered over tentatively, his eyes both hopeful and pleading. I found two bowls and spooned out the wondrous delicacy between them. His bowl only had a quarter of what mine did. I wasn’t that generous.

The goblin’s eyes lit up as he tasted the pinnacle of human culinary arts. In a single moment, the beast opened his excessively wide maw and scraped the entire contents of the bowl into his mouth with his fingers. He swallowed it in a single gulp, and while I sympathized with his enthusiasm, it was such a waste. Potty training was not the only etiquette I needed to teach the beast. “Mac and Cheese,” I said to the goblin.

The goblin gazed into my eyes, licked his lips, and said, “Murkendchez.”

I nearly jumped out of my chair. I had assumed goblins were only capable of growls and grunts. I assumed they were no more capable of human speech than a dog, yet I was completely wrong. The words were slurred and distorted, but the pieces were all there. Goblins could be taught to speak.

I immediately took the goblin’s bowl and added a bit more of my own mac and cheese to it. It hurt, but for the sake of teaching this creature English, the sacrifice was worth it, “Mac - And - Cheese,” I said slowly and clearly.

“Murk - End - Chez,” the goblin replied, equally slowly. It was better, so I handed him the bowl, and he gulped it down again. His eyes seemed to sparkle, and he had a disturbing but somehow still endearing grin that stretched from ear to ear.

I added more to his bowl, “Mac - And - Cheese,”

“Murk - End - Chez,” The goblin responded, reaching his hands out expectantly.

“No,” I answered firmly, with a frown. The goblin immediately lowered his head and looked afraid, “Mac - And - Cheese,” I said again.

“Mark - End - Cheez,” he said nervously.

“Good boy!” I said happily and handed him the bowl again.

I continued the lesson until he could say, “Mak - End - Cheez,” and I ran out of food. I made myself another single batch, which I did not share.

I piled the blankets he had been sleeping on before on the bedroom floor and found some more sheets for myself in a closet. I pointed the goblin to the sheets on the ground until he curled up on them, and then I lay down. Sleep came quickly. I was happy.