Over the next few minutes, I’m signed in, waivered up, and put in plastic hazmat-looking plastic coveralls.

Gunner is grinning ear to ear.

A rage room. A place where you’re given time in a room to break shit. Whether it be for fun or to relieve stress or to get your anger out.

“How in the world did you ever find this place?” I ask Gunner, as he adjusts his very sexy (not) goggles over his eyes.

“Someone mentioned it in the bar a while back. Some of the guys and I came here to check it out. I thought it might be a good way to let some of that bottled-up emotion out.”

Normally I’d be pissed if someone said that to me, as if they were judging me or telling me what to do, but Gunner’s words don’t elicit that reaction.

He’s lost his father.

He’s lost his friends.

He understands.

And maybe, just maybe, I want him to understand me better. In fact, I like the fact that he understands me.

“To make the most of your experience, change your weapon every few minutes,” the employee tells us as he stands at the door to the rage room. “There are bats, hammers, clubs—you name it. Also, music helps. You can change that as often as you want as well or pick a theme song and stick with it. Loud is good. Blaring is better.” His grin is infectious and implies he’s had some fun in here before. “Oh, and make sure to scream and yell and get whatever it is you’re here for, all out.”

I look around the padded square room where a row of weapons of sorts hang on one side of the wall and a table sits in the middle. The table has electronics on it, glass vases. There are metal—what looks like kegs—in another area right below the row of shelves of stacked dishes.

“Some people even prefer to write what they’re angry about in Sharpie on the plates so when they smash them, they can feel like they’re breaking it.” He steps toward the door. “I’m going to give you five minutes to get ready, and then I’ll start the music and timer for you.”

Gunner and I both nod in agreement and then the minute the door shuts, we both start laughing. “This is crazy,” I say.

“Just wait till you see how good you feel after.” He walks toward the plates. “Now I, for one, am going to write some things on the plates so I can enjoy smashing them.”

“Like what?”

“Sal is pretty much one of my go-tos.” And the way he says it, as if he’s completely okay with letting me into the struggles he still has over his asshole stepfather, makes him even more endearing to me.

“Let’s do two for him,” I say and he laughs.