Excerpt from Darin Strauss's "More Than It Hurts You"

The male cop approached.  "Mr. Goldin, do you have a key for this door?  We've got the right to ask." 

The policeman was tall, with a mid-career softness at his middle; his features were a collection of pale and carefully shaved ridges. The face of this cop-the noticing-half of Josh's brain recorded-was managing a tricky job.  Determined, sympathetic, superciliously without remorse: This is an unpleasant duty, I understand, he seemed to say. But let's be frank, it's a situation that couldn't happen to me; it was the expression of an undertaker who would never die.

And then Josh found himself at the door-he had no idea where its key was; the house was Dori's world, it functioned invisibly for him; he remembered his affronted hand knocking on it.  He didn't like to (and couldn't) remember what he said; he was mortified to think of his own sturdily affable voice asking his wife to come out and hand over their baby. 

Josh did remember something else, too; looking over his shoulder-helpless, powerless in his own house-while the male cop nodded and mouthed: "Thanks." Somehow that was one of the worst things to remember, the policeman's embarrassed thanks. Dori opened the door looking furious and dignified, her face pinked by crying.  She evened her hostile blue stare on Josh, a little slow resentment, before she turned to the police. 

This made him feel like ice; it was the strangest sensation. Really, he felt built of ice: cold but also brittle, all fractured inside-as if shatterable, as if see-through.

The Goldins nodded their heads in disbelief, they asked what right these people had to take Zack, they offered up outrageous threats, they asked what had CPS actually claimed, all in the space of a minute; but in the end the parents were left just to blink and blink, numbly. No one had needed to tell them why.