A/N: Yes, a Led Zeppelin reference. Why not?

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Chara Finch, District 10

"All right, hon," Mom starts, hovering next to Dad, "do you want us to help you down, or do you think you can handle it?"

I eye the steps on the asphalt, rubbing my knees subconsciously. Stairs have always been my Achilles' heel; I have problems with my knees, or ligaments, or something—we haven't bothered to ask a doctor since the last guy's exorbitant-for-doing-absolutely-nothing bill—and walking up and down stairs is the worst thing to do.

So Mom and Dad have always been used to helping me around them. But... I'm 15. I feel like I should at least be able to climb stairs on my own...

"I'll try by myself today," I decide. My parents nod and step out of the way.

There are only two steps. I take the first slowly, placing both my feet on its surface before I try for the ground. I get my right foot down easily enough.

And then my knees buckle in.

I yelp, preparing my hands to smack the pavement, but Mom grabs my elbow before I get there.

Frowning and stifling a sigh, I straighten myself up, and Mom lets go.

"To the reaping," I mutter, leading the way with annoyingly careful footsteps.

My parents hand me off to the 15-year-olds section—no stairs to worry about there—and, soon enough, Mayor Reilbur, a beldam who tries to act younger than she really is, starts her spiel on the formation of Panem and the Hunger Games.

I listen out of habit, though it's still boring and disgusting as ever. Of course, everything regarding these bestial Games is disgusting. But the Capitol is so blasé about it, even their "district representatives" are at ease with sending off a fresh batch of kids to kill.

One said "district representative", Zahir Hickory, is stepping up to the tributes' names, trying to get all of us excited.

He's badly failing.

"All right, then," he says, sounding a bit perturbed about our lack of suicidal joy, "let's just get started, shall we?" He gives a ridiculous, gulping laugh before sweeping his hand over the girls' reaping bowl and pulling a name right off the top.

"And our female tribute is—" he unfolds the crumpled paper—"Chara Finch!"

...What? What did he just say?

A few of the fifteens in front of me gasp and make a path for me.

Did he... Did he really just call me?

I lurch forward, at first thinking I'm about to stumble over, but when I try to calm my jitters, I start to progress.

Tears are pricking at my eyes, but I tell them no. No, I can't look weak here. I'll... I'll just walk straight, and...

I get through the last of the crowd and look at the foot-high, wooden stage.

And the three steps leading up to it.

I look around the edge. There's no ramp. These are the only way up.

Gulping hard, I set my right foot on the first step, then my left. I don't fall. I put my right foot on the next step, then my left.

I fall.

But... I pick myself up, and... eventually... manage to get up the last step.

I'm crying now. I'll already look pathetic to the sponsors—what kind of winning tribute can't climb three stairs?—so it's useless to hold back.

"No volunteers?" Zahir asks, his voice shrieky and blithe. "Then I present your female tribute for the thirteenth Hunger Games!" he exclaims.

No one claps. I can see a few of my friends covering their mouths and taking shaky breaths. I can see my parents crying, Mom's face smothered in Dad's coat. They all know I won't make it.

I imagine the Hunger Games... are a bit like a staircase. You climb up and up, and you tire yourself, and you want to stop, but there's no other way to go.

Unless you fall.

And I know... no matter how hard I try...

I'll be one who falls.