What are little boys made of? (Part One)

We're approaching  Demeter's condo building.  A man and his son or grandson -- better not to assume, especially these days -- have reached it just ahead of us, and the little boy, who is more of a knee-gnawer than an ankle-biter, has just entered the code with a flourish.

We carefully brandish our entrance keys to signal that we have a legitimate means to enter the building, and that it's okay to hold the door for us.

We follow them into the elevator, and, after the buttons for  our respective floors have been pushed,  the knee-gnawer looks around and announces:  "No smoking!"  He gives us a keen gaze.

"Good thing I don't have smokes," I observe soberly.

He turns and grills his grandfather (or father). "Do you have smokes?"

Assured, he turns to the Resident Fan Boy and points:  "Do you have smokes?"

Younger daughter doesn't escape the interrogation.  She is quietly amused and bemused.

As the door opens, the man catches my eye:  "Well, that's a relief!"

We leave the pair to rise above us, like smoke, to the third floor.