33 Apocalypse Ave, Friday Evening

After the reserves meeting a couple of days before, Ronan had been left with a nagging thought that had taken him a while to tease out. He had evidence, after all, that the Manual lost all information on disappeared wizards; could it provide him with a count of the total -- no, that would be way larger than he wanted to deal with -- with the last five digits of the total number of wizards in the universe? That would be a convenient way to check if the phenomenon, whatever it was, was only affecting people he knew.

Oh, look, it could.

Oh, look, it was going down. Not at a constant, or even particular rapid, rate, but as Ronan checked periodically, there was a significant decline.

One wizard, gone without a trace, would be a significant decline. A few thousand? Was monumental.

So Ronan was sitting at the table, leftover Thai curry in front of him -- and being pushed around the plate more than being eaten. His phone was handy, of course; he was trying to work up the nerve to call Nita, or Kit, or maybe Sker'ret... They were still listed, at least for now, but the thought that that could change mid-conversation had Ronan pretty well afraid to pick up his phone and call.

Idly, Ronan sighed, scratched out a five-digit number on a piece of paper on the table, and wrote in a new, smaller one.

[Open! For houseguests, phonecalls/texts, people in town who want to stop by, etc!]