In my attempt to explore how border policies shape childhood, I unexpectedly captured a reverse "shaping." In Tashkurgan, sentries are not merely administrators; they are themselves "sons" of this land, conscripted by the authorities. When, on a relaxed afternoon, they shed their duty and play with local children, a small "border crossing" occurs. This is not simply a matter of tenderness. The children's play is an innocent invasion of the "forbidden" border zone; the sentries' pursuit is a futile attempt by power to suppress an untamable life force. This game repeats the eternal cat-and-mouse metaphor along the border, but the roles are blurred. Ultimately, when the whistle blows, they return to their places—the children return to a fatherless childhood, the sentries return to their posts gazing towards distant lands—that brief community, mingled with laughter and gazes, quietly crumbles, leaving only photographs as evidence that, in the gaps of the narrative of iron and blood, there once existed a tender attempt to recognize one another.