Michael sat at the kitchen table, completely oblivious. He had no idea Charity had slipped off to a pocket dimension. As far as he knew, she'd been at the stove the entire time, cooking bacon and eggs for breakfast.
As the main course was almost ready to be served, he got up and plucked a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator. He poured a generous amount in each of their glasses, then set the pitcher down. That was about the extent of what his legs could handle, and he sat back down.
"The weather here is perfect," Michael stated. The idea of going back to cold and windy Chicago made his legs and his back ache.