Twenty minutes later we arrive at a big unmarked warehouse.

“You’re murdering me, aren’t you?” I ask as he opens the passenger-side door for me.

“Yes. That’s exactly right.”

We walk up and enter a small office. There’s a front desk topped with stacks of clipboards and paperwork and a container of pens. I look around and see jumpsuits and heavy-duty goggles. I step toward the window near the desk. On the other side of the glass is a massive space filled with junk. Old cars, furniture, electronics. A huge Christmas tree with ornaments and presents underneath. Freestanding drywall.

“What is this?” I ask him.

“It’s a rage room,” he says. “We get to go in there and smash all of that shit.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You said you were mad lately. I thought . . . Was this a bad idea?”

It takes me a few seconds to speak, to untie my tongue and form the words.

“No, this is great,” I say. “This is really great.”

A tear stings the corner of my eye. Maybe it’s stupid to be so moved by this, but I told him I was angry, and he didn’t judge me for it. He wasn’t turned off by it. He accepts it, is giving me space for it.

A man appears behind the counter. He has us read and sign the forms, gives us a little speech about how it works, then hands us the jumpsuits and goggles to put on. We finish off our looks with plastic face shields. Ian selects the baseball bat, leaving me to choose between a golf club and sledgehammer. I go sledgehammer.

“Those are heavy,” the man says. “Women have a better time with the golf club.”

I don’t bother to respond, just can’t help but laugh.

“She’s good,” Ian says.

“Okay, then,” the man says, opening the door to the warehouse. “Have fun.”

I wander out through the rubble. I climb on top of one of the cars, a rusty decades-old Toyota. I lift my sledgehammer up high over my head, and in a swift, efficient movement, I smash it through the windshield. The hair on the back of my neck pricks up. I take off the side mirror with a lazy swing.

I hop down and open the driver’s-side door. I kick it once to get it loose, then again to take it clean off. It slides across the floor to Ian’s feet.

I feel him watching me. His attention doesn’t deter me. I tighten my grip on the handle of the sledgehammer. I hold it in both hands and listen to the sing of my blood. Then I spin around and obliterate the headlights.

I won’t stop until it’s nothing. I want it to be nothing. I want to destroy it. Pick it up and throw it across the room.

I could.

I could crush it with my bare hands. I’m strong enough.

The violence has me salivating. When given the opportunity to rage, I will rage.