No matter how many times she instructed the class on a new drill, assigned them into groups of four, or corrected someone's stance, Buffy wasn't sure she could ever get used to the idea that she was a teacher of something. That she was teaching someone (many someones, in fact.) Even as a counselor at the high school, she had often felt more at mercy of the students than anything else; they sobbed and sobbed and accused her of not understanding and then sobbed some more. Try as she might, Buffy was not a doctor, and though she could lend an ear and say the reassuring things she hoped they wanted to hear, she couldn't connect with the students on a personal level. They were worried about their boyfriends and girlfriends and next week's history exam; Buffy had spent her high school years anticipating the next apocalypse. It was hard to relate.

Here, though, in this gym — here, she felt at home. Within the confines of the Martial Arts classroom, Buffy never had to doubt herself. If there was one place on this island where she belonged, this was it. She was stretching when she heard the knock, blonde pony-tail tickling the mat as she bent to touched her toes and then some.

"Hi," she called back, with much more energy that she had ever been able to muster this early in the morning. It was funny how much a renewed sense of importance could do for a girl. Riding to an upright position, Buffy waved to the girl and headed toward the door. "Yeah, I'm her. She's me. We're one and the same. And yeah, if you want to, absolutely. What's your name? I don't think we've met — please tell me we haven't met. There's nothing worse than thinking you're meeting someone you already met and just forgot completely."