Somewhere near Yermo, California, the top story in the Desert Dispatch that morning says, a woman was attacked by dogs and killed.

Soon after reading that, my travelling buddy and I are on a deserted stretch of the old Route 66, somewhere near Yermo. So as we drive, we are watching for dogs.

The "Mother Road" according to John Steinbeck, Route 66 no longer runs as it once did from Chicago to LA. Or put it this way - most traffic no longer uses it to travel between Chicago and LA. Long since superceded by smoother, straighter stretches of Interstate highways -- I-40 here, I-15 somewhere else - Route 66 now exists largely in a country's imagination, a throwback to an era of diners and fast-food, nostalgia and even the Dust Bowl. People from the world over - many hordes from Europe - drive it, soaking in the nostalgia. The new highways devastated the little communities along the way - and in fact, part of the nostalgia lies in gawking at rusting, crumbling remains of stores and restaurants and motels - but some of them now survive on the 66 tourist trade.

Not to suggest that the road itself is no longer there, physically. In segments, it is. Usually as part of other numbered roads, sometimes maintained well, sometimes not, often with "Route 66" painted intermittently on the tarmac, or "Historic Route 66" markers on the shoulder - in those ways, 66 lives on. And of course, it is personified in the businesses that survive on the memory of the old road.

So yes, we are on this deserted stretch of 66. I-40 is a mile to the south, cars and trucks scurrying along like so many coloured ants. Ahead and behind for as far as we can see, which must be a good four mile stretch right now, we are the only ones scurrying. No dogs that we can see.

And then, far ahead, I see a stick-like figure in a long black coat flapping in the wind, stepping into the road and waving stick-like arms. Steps back. Steps back in and waves again. Steps back. Once more, and by now we are almost on him; a teenager, pimply face and chubby cheeks, beard sprouting on his chin. We stop. It's then that we notice his car, parked on the edge of the road. Its faded grubby once-white paint is the reason we hadn't seen it, almost camouflaged where it stands. There's someone in the driver's seat, older, stringy shoulder-length hair, looking straight ahead through the windshield, impossible to tell what sex.

The teenager looks at us inquiringly, as if wondering why we have stopped. Says nothing. We stare at him, right outside my window. "Do you need help?" I ask finally. "You were waving your arms, right?"

"Yeah," says the kid. "Trying to stop anyone we can! Been stuck here two hours. We're out of gas. Do you have any?"

Apart from what's in our tank, we have none. "We can get you some," buddy says. "But don't you have a cellphone?"

"Yeah, well, I don't know, you'll have to ask her," and he gestures at the person in the front seat, who hasn't moved and still doesn't. "My mom."

Buddy asks, "Do you know where the closest gas station is?"

"Yeah, I think there's one about three miles that way," pointing in the direction we are headed. "Newberry Springs."

Which raises the question: two hours, three miles, why hasn't he just walked to the station yet? He could have returned, complete with gas, by now.

Imponderables. "You need anything else?" we check before driving on.

"Yeah, but no thanks, just the gas, please."

There is indeed a Chevron station about three miles up the road. Fifteen minutes and we are back at the grubby once-white car, with a gallon of the aromatic stuff in a can. The teenager stands where we left him, waiting for us. Now he says, "Yeah, and now the battery has died." (That's right, he starts everything he says with "Yeah".)

He stands there, staring at us. Buddy gets out of the car with the can in hand.

He asks, "Do you have jumper cables?"

"Yeah, no, no jumper cables. But someone is helping us with those. She called my mother."

He stands there, staring at us.

I ask, "But you want the gas, right?"

"Yeah, sure, if you'll give it to me!"

Buddy hands it over. "Yeah, I've done this plenty of times!" the kid says, as he starts pouring it into his tank. The mother opens her door and steps out - tall and gaunt, jeans, t-shirt and jacket against the slight chill - limps around to where her son is with a quick nod and a hint of a smile at us. She leans against the car, back to us. Something awkward about her posture.

Then. She reaches into her pocket in a way that suggests to me, almost screams, "gun!" Perhaps that's unfair, but as her arm moves, that's what pops into my head. I even wonder fleetingly at how incongruous the kid's long overcoat looks ... unless it's cover for a long gun?

I do the only thing I can think of: move our car slightly so that if I see a gun emerging, I can hit the accelerator and slam into the pair. (Yes, to my surprise, that's what I'm thinking.) Noticing this move, my buddy, standing outside, looks at me questioningly. I mouth to him, "It's OK."

Her hand emerges slowly. She's got something in it. Something solid and black, glinting in the sunlight. Looking down at her hand, then slowly turning towards me, she raises her arm and crooks it.

It's the cellphone. She's trying to call someone.

The kid returns the can to us. "Thank you so much," he says, patting his pockets. "Yeah, thank you so much. I wish I had something I could give you."

My buddy says, "Don't worry about it. Just take care of yourselves."

Me? I wave buddy over: "You drive. I can't." I'll stick to watching for dogs.