I knew a guy once who made boxes. He built them from pieces of wood he found lying around outside his house. We could never figure out where they came from, but whenever he felt the need to build a box the wood was always there.

I remember one day we were around at his house helping him collect wood for a new box he was building. It was getting towards dusk and I called to him that he should look at the sunset. He didn't quite catch what I had said and as he turned to me he slipped on the wet grass and fell, banging his head on a rusty barrel that was lying half concealed by a bush. We ran over to him to see if he was alright, but he was knocked out cold. Someone got some water and splashed it in his face to bring him round. Slowly he awoke, coughing slightly as some of the water had got into his mouth.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just about. In fact, I think I can fly."

This worried us slightly. We began to suspect he might have concussion, but after he'd flown up to the roof and back a couple of times we had to believe him. It was getting late by now so we gathered up the wood, took it inside to his store of planks, and then headed for home.

A couple of days later I called round to check up on him. He was sitting in his kitchen, stapling together bits of crêpe paper.

"What are you doing?"

"When people suddenly find they can fly they become superheroes. I've seen it on TV."

"So, what are you doing?"

"I'm making my costume."

I thought about this for a while as he went on stapling.

"But the only thing you can do is fly.  You're not exactly fit, you know. All you're going to be able to do is fly into trouble and then get beaten up."

"It's something I've got to do. It's kind of like... tradition."

I thought, maybe that fall has addled his brain, so I persuaded him to see a doctor. We walked over there that evening. The sun was sinking quickly and his paper cape blew crazily in the gentle breeze. He rustled as he walked. By the time we got to the doctor's house he was beginning to look quite crumpled.

The doctor answered the door straight away, almost as if he'd been expecting us. He was a wizened old fellow with thin white hair, crazy eyes and the beginnings of a hunchback. In a more interesting world he would have been a mad scientist plotting to take over the world and rubbing his hands together as the evil thoughts shot through his head like black electricity. Instead he offered us biscuits. I explained my friends problem while the doctor listened intently. When I finished, the doctor sat back and stretched his withered arms before pronouncing his solution.

"Maybe you should just build the perfect box."

I looked across at my friend sitting in an armchair, his crêpe paper costume creased and torn. I couldn't tell if he was smiling or crying.