Imaginary Mom would say, get your head examined. Or at least I think she would. How the hell would I know, really? Imaginary Mom is, well… imaginary. And Real Mom gave me up when I was four months old. Sometimes I think I can still remember her. A smell, or a color. But the second I try to catch ahold of it, the feeling's gone. All she honestly gave me was her genes, my name and the gold locket around my neck. Now I'm on my own. Like I've always been. Just like I plan to always be.

I've shoved the last of pitifully few boxes into my rusty old Beetle. Books, clothes, shampoo. Today is moving day. Again.

But I'm nothing if not resilient. You have to be, with a life like mine. I looked up one last time and watched the pink curtains fluttering in my bedroom window. Well, what had been my window. The lease ran out about the same time my money did, and I'm not one to overstay my welcome. Today's the thirty-first and I'm leaving the apartment cleaner than I found it. It's not so much the living space I hate to leave. It's that I'm losing my work space too. My first real studio… the place I found the gift of my own two hands. My passion. My value in this world.

Next to me on the seat were the boxes that matter the most. The ones holding my sculptures. Little clay figures that I put my whole soul into, tiny beings that carry the imprints of my fingers and hour upon hour of my entire creative purpose. Maybe I'm not as alone as I think, I pondered as I pulled the plastic sheeting up and tucked it carefully around a tiny, exposed limb.

My friend India, said I could crash at her place for as long as I need. God knows, she's got the space. I could stay in her condo for the better part of a month without even running into her. She's an artist, like me, so I knew right off her money came from somewhere other than her sales. Neither one of us has had many of those lately, even though we both have pieces in one of the better galleries in town.

The car started on the fourth attempt and I took a long, brave breath in. I'd hesitated to take her up on her offer, but in the end I had. And gratefully. Resourceful as I am, I was also equally broke and pretty much at the end of my options.

India and I had hit it off instantly about six months ago. We were both attending a seminar on bronze casting techniques and bonded over the fruit and cheese plates. For her, it was refreshment. For me, my first and last meal of the day. I floored the gas and hit max speed of forty-three miles an hour. I'd be at India's condo before nightfall, anyway…

It's not like we were actually friends, not really. But she's bright and fun, and as passionate about art as I am. I could tell she's conventional, probably grew up wanting for nothing. But she's also free spirited and adventurous, and you just can't help admiring that in a person. But like I said, we're not really friends. Not that she wouldn't be a great one. It's just that I don't do friendships. Or relationships. Or any very meaningful, permanent-type deals. It's just not who I am.

Twenty-four years ago, Real Mom gave me up for adoption. A sort of Birth Day present for the girl who had nothing. All I know for sure is that she couldn't keep me, but legally gave me the name I've kept ever since. I've been the same Libby Jones in every one of a dozen foster homes throughout my short childhood. Some good, some not so good. I grew up with a sense of living both everywhere and nowhere all at once, with no family to belong to, but with an artistic drive that made up for whatever else I might have missed out on…

I know how to be strong, creative and obstinate. I'm a survivor, and in many ways it may be Real Mom I have to thank for that. I'm also smart enough not to get too close, too attached. I'll take risks, try new and scary things. I'll do what I have to do, in order to keep making the tiny living, breathing sculptures that I'm driven to create. Anything, everything I might go through in life is worth it, to keep shaping the clay. Call it my best shot at immortality.

The Bug shudders like something important may be looser than it should be, but I'm only five minutes from India's. Like I said, I'm grateful for a place to crash, but I'm not one for owing favors. I need to pay my own way and soon. I want to be out of her condo within the next two weeks, tops. That's why I'm hoping she'll have good news when I get there.

I've been seriously considering the idea she proposed some weeks ago. And I really think I'm up for it. If her brother agrees, that is. She told me he's a divorced man, considering hiring a surrogate to carry his child. It would involve meetings and interviews and medical exams… the whole nine yards and then some. He may not even go for it in the end, or he may choose another woman for the job. But she says he wants a family more than anything and would be able to give a baby every advantage in life. And he'd pay a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for my services. Many times the standard rate for surrogacy. Enough to set me up in a real studio of my own. It could be my one real break in life. I decided pretty quickly that if Jack Mason picked me, I was in.

But could I have a baby, and give it away, never to watch it grow up, or walk, or see its first smile? That was something I'd thought about long and hard. And frankly, I figure it's probably what I'm best suited for. Even though my body has been giving me all the signals for a while now that it's ripe and ready, eager to get on with what it was designed for, I have no skills and no desire to raise a child. Oh, and did I mention… no resources?

A baby needs a parent who can provide a loving, stable home. Someone who's always dreamed of having a family and is committed to the long haul. Someone who had great parents of their own as role models and maybe a big, extended family. That's the kind of parent every baby really needs. And that's just not me. I'd make a much better Imaginary Mom than a real one. So from everything India told about Jack, it sounds like we could be the answer to each other's prayers.

As if on cue, my phone started up with India's ringtone, reminding me the cell company hadn't cut my service off yet. I pulled over and answered, my heart beating just a little too fast.

"Jack's in, Libby. I got the call and he's in, all the way."

I sucked in a lungful. "This is happening?" I squeaked out. "Like, now?" Suddenly my ordinary day felt very surreal. "He hasn't even met me yet…"

"Right now, Lib. Jack wants us at his place… in an hour."