I wrote Man in a Box as a short story while I sat in a bus station at 4am in Rabat, Morocco, as I waited for it to get light before I went to look for a cheap hotel.
I've always liked cardboard boxes. Who didn't cut them up as a kid with scissors to make doors and windows, climb inside them and stack them on top of each other? When they arrive in the post you know that something good must be inside. When you move house they're the first thing you look for.
But the rest of the time they're just garbage. Torn, dirty, discarded, useful only to the homeless who take them to provide insulation from the cold of the ground.
When I write stories I like to take a seemingly random premise and see where it takes me: What would happen if a man took to putting his head inside a cardboard box?