The eight linked stories that comprise Aimee Phan's chilling debut are inspired by "Operation Babylift," the evacuation of thousands of orphans from Vietnam to America weeks before the fall of Saigon. Moving effortlessly between the war-torn homeland and Orange County's "Little Saigon," Phan chronicles the journeys of four such orphans. Passionate and beautifully written, We Should Never Meet is an utterly fresh reconsideration of the Vietnam War for a new generation and heralds the arrival of one of "the very best of the new wave of Asian-American authors" (David Wong Louie). “With almost plainsong dialogue and unornamented description that takes you straight to the troubled hearts of these people . . . Phan [builds] an unsentimental, profoundly persuasive portrait of ordinary people making the best of extraordinary, almost inexpressible tragedy.” ― Elle “Remarkable . . . The stories are indelible yet float past you . . . many complicated issues are brought to life here.” ― San Francisco Chronicle “Phan charts [these] journeys with acuity, sensitivity, [and] wisdom.” ― Los Angeles Times “Phan accomplishes what only a true artist can: she gives voice to the voiceless and makes them speak for us all. This is a thrillingly important book.” ― Robert Olen Butler “There is nothing more satisfying for readers than having an author take them to a place they think they know, and then showing them how very little they actually do.” ― Hartford Courant Aimee Phan  grew up in Orange County, California, and now teaches in the MFA Writing Program and Writing and Literature Program at California College of the Arts. A 2010 National Endowment of the Arts Creative Writing Fellow, Aimee received her MFA from the Iowa Writer's Workshop, where she won a Maytag Fellowship. Her first book, WE SHOULD NEVER MEET, was named a Notable Book by the Kiryama Prize in fiction and a finalist for the 2005 Asian American Literary Awards. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times , USA Today,  and The Oregonian among others. We Should Never Meet Stories By Aimee Phan Picador Copyright © 2005 Aimee Phan All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312322670 WE SHOULD NEVER MEET (Chapter One)Miss Lien LIEN WAS FIGHTING THEM again. Clawing at their arms, kicking her feet, pushing them away. Go get the boy. This one is strong. She rolled her head from one side to the other. Her skin was slick, sweat squeezing from every pore in her body, but there were still so many hands holding her down. Lien tried to focus on the ceiling. She knew it was dark cement, she remembered that from several hours earlier, but all she saw were bright blues and purples, growing lighter and lighter. Push. Push now. She tried to do what they said, she knew it would make the pain stop. But they still weren't satisfied. They kept wanting her to push harder. They were beginning to sound angry. We need more sheets. It's getting slippery. Why is all this blood coming from such a small girl? That's probably why. Her body is still so young. It isn't prepared for this. Little slut. All right. Let's try this again. Push. Push now. Their voices were getting fainter. Lien tried to lift her head up to hear them better, but a rough hand pushed it back onto the mat. Another gripped at her hair, pulling her head even farther back, ripping several strands from her damp scalp. Push. Push. Now all she could see were the colors. She wanted to tell them she was trying. She really was. But the only thing they could hear were her soft, shallow breaths, quieter and quieter. The silt below Lien's feet was soft. Silky. She felt her heels, then the soles and toes sink into the soil until finally she looked down to see that the earth had swallowed her up to her ankles. Lien twisted playfully, testing her balance. The earth's grip on her was tight, secure. Her brothers' voices rang far away. They were playing beyond their family's rice paddy, near the main road where the ground was solid enough to run on. It would take them a while to grow bored enough to come bother her. By then, her parents would be home from the market, and she and her sisters would help their mother and grandmother prepare dinner. But for now, she was alone. A slight breeze rustled the still water and cooled the sweat pooling on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, enjoying it. The oldest of seven children, Lien was hardly ever alone. The July monsoon season had ended, and for the first time in weeks the sky was clear, and the sun soared high, brightening the rich green of the fields and thick shade trees. Soon they would be planting rice seedlings for a new crop. While her family's plot of land was not nearly as vast as the rich plantations farther north in the Mekong Delta, it was adequate enough to feed Lien, her grandparents, parents, and younger siblings. She looked to the earth. Her shadow stretched across the field, long and looming, intimidating. Since she could remember, Lien had always be